“Yes.”
“All right, then; we’ll wait until it’s night, and then we’ll do the job properly.”
Late in the evening the pope dragged the goat indoors, killed it, and took off its skin—horns, beard, and all complete. Then he pulled the goat’s skin over himself and said to his wife:
“Bring a needle and thread, mother, and fasten up the skin all round, so that it mayn’t slip off.”
So she took a strong needle, and some tough thread, and sewed him up in the goatskin. Well, at the dead of night, the pope went straight to the old man’s cottage, got under the window, and began knocking and scratching. The old man hearing the noise, jumped up and asked:
“Who’s there?”
“The Devil!”
“Ours is a holy spot![34]” shrieked the moujik, and began crossing himself and uttering prayers.
“Listen, old man,” says the pope, “From me thou will not escape, although thou may’st pray, although thou may’st cross thyself; much better give me back my pot of money, otherwise I will make thee pay for it. See now, I pitied thee in thy misfortune, and I showed thee the treasure, thinking thou wouldst take a little of it to pay for the funeral, but thou hast pillaged it utterly.”
The old man looked out of window—the goat’s horns and beard caught his eye—it was the Devil himself, no doubt of it.