“I wish I could give you something better, sir.”
“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?”
