tops upon the ice; while their fathers lay quietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals with lighted pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the orthodox frost, or to take the air, and thresh the grain spread out in the barn.  At last the snow began to melt, and the ice rind slipped away:  but Petro remained the same; and, the longer it went on, the more morose he grew.  He sat in the middle of the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the sacks of gold at his feet.  He grew shy, his hair grew long, he became terrible; and still he thought of but one thing, still he tried to recall something, and got angry and ill-tempered because he could not recall it.  Often, rising wildly from his seat, he gesticulates violently, fixes his eyes on something as though desirous of catching it:  his lips move as though desirous of uttering some long-forgotten word—­and remain speechless.  Fury takes possession of him:  he gnaws and bites his hands like a man half crazy, and in his vexation tears out his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he falls into forgetfulness, as it were, and again begins to recall, and is again seized with fury and fresh tortures. . . .  What visitation of God is this?

Pidorka was neither dead nor alive.  At first it was horrible to her to remain alone in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman grew accustomed to her sorrow.  But it was impossible to recognize the Pidorka of former days.  No blush, no smile:  she was thin and worn with grief, and had wept her bright eyes away.  Once, some one who evidently took pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear’s ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease in the world.  She determined to try this last remedy:  word by word she persuaded the old woman to come to her.  This was St. John’s Eve, as it chanced.  Petro lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the new-comer.  Little by little he rose, and looked about him.  Suddenly he trembled in every limb, as though he were on the scaffold:  his hair rose upon his head, . . . and he laughed such a laugh as pierced Pidorka’s heart with fear.  “I have remembered, remembered!” he cried in terrible joy; and, swinging a hatchet round his head, he flung it at the old woman with all his might.  The hatchet penetrated the oaken door two vershok (three inches and a half).  The old woman disappeared; and a child of seven in a white blouse, with covered head, stood in the middle of the cottage. . . .  The sheet flew off.  “Ivas!” cried Pidorka, and ran to him; but the apparition became covered from head to foot with blood, and illumined the whole room with red light. . . .  She ran into the passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a little, wished to help him; in vain! the door had slammed to behind her so securely that she could not open it.  People ran up, and began to knock:  they broke in the door, as though there was but one mind among them.  The whole cottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle, where Petrus had stood, was a heap of ashes, from which smoke was still rising.  They flung themselves upon the sacks:  only broken potsherds lay there instead of ducats.  The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open mouths, not daring to move a hair, as if rooted to the earth, such terror did this wonder inspire in them.