“Do you see, Mistress Malca, how beautifully the wood burns?”
“I see, Mosh Nichifor, but my heart is throbbing with fear.”
“Ugh! you will excuse me, but you seem to belong to the Itzic breed. Pluck up a little courage! If you are so timid, get into the carriage, and go to sleep: the night is short, daylight soon comes.”
Malca, encouraged by old Nichifor, got into the carriage and lay down; old Nichifor lighted his pipe, spread out his sheepskin cloak and stretched himself by the side of the fire and puffed away at his pipe, and was just going off to sleep when a spark flew out on to his nose!
“Damn! That must be a spark from the sticks Malca picked up; it has burnt me so. Are you asleep, Mistress?”
“I think I was sleeping a little, Mosh Nichifor, but I had a nightmare and woke up.”
“I have been unlucky too; a spark jumped out on to my nose and frightened sleep away or I might have slept all night. But can anyone sleep through the mad row these nightingales are making? They seem to do it on purpose. But then, this is their time for making love to each other. Are you asleep, young lady?”
“I think I was going to sleep, Mosh Nichifor.”
“Do you know, young lady, I think I will put out the fire now at once: I have just remembered that those wicked wolves prowl about and come after smoke.”
“Put it out, Mosh Nichifor, if that’s the case.”