“Nothing could taste better than this,” he said, handing her back the empty pitcher. “See, I have taken it all.”
Dobrunka put the pitcher away and the young man, while her back was turned, slipped a leather bag, full of money, into the bed.
“I thank you for the drink,” he said, as he rose to go. “I’ll come again tomorrow if you’ll let me.”
“Come if you want to,” Dobrunka said, modestly.
He took her hand, held it a moment, then leaped upon his horse and galloped off.
Dobrunka sat down again to her wheel and tried to work, but her mind wandered. The image of the young man kept rising before her eyes and I have to confess that, for an expert spinner, she broke her thread pretty often.
Her mother came home in the evening full of praises of Zloboha, who, she said, was growing prettier day by day. Everybody in town admired her and she was fast learning city ways and city manners. It was Zloboha this and Zloboha that for hours.
Finally the old woman remarked: “They say there was a great hunting party out today. Did you hear anything of it?”
“Oh, yes,” Dobrunka said. “I forgot to tell you that a young huntsman stopped here to ask for a drink. He was handsomely dressed in leather. You know once when I was in town with you we saw a whole company of men in leather coats with white feathers in their caps. No doubt this young man belonged to the hunting party. When he had his drink, he jumped on his horse and rode off.”
Dobrunka forgot to mention that he had taken her hand in parting and promised to come back next day.