"'Tis a woman, a woman indeed!" whispered Ivan and the dame of the house to each other.
The latter now approached the enigmatical shape a little more boldly, and sitting down beside him, opened a conversation with him.
"What, pray, is your business with my husband?"
"Come, come, my dear creature! You have no right to put such questions to me. You ought rather to ask me whether I am hungry and would like some supper. You would not have to ask me that twice I can assure you."
The woman, at this hint, arose sullenly and took from a wainscot cupboard a plate of hearth cakes which she set before the stranger.
"I suppose, sir, you don't mind eating off the headsman's platter?" said she.
"Stuff! What if I am of the same profession!"
"Oh, of course! I can see that from those soft white little hands of yours which are not such as the hands of a man ought to be."
But the words were scarce out of her mouth when the virago uttered a loud scream, for the little white paws she had just tapped suddenly pressed her huge fleshy palm so vigorously that every bone in it cracked.
"Satan take him!—'tis a man, not a doubt of it!" whispered the woman to Ivan. "He has a hand like an iron vice."