“Later,” says the same authority, “we sent the cook to the bazaar to do her marketing, and she took with her my cousin, Sidor Karpowitch. The latter was carrying a pot and a good wooden spoon. ‘I have a great mind,’ he said, ‘to lay in my stock of honey, as I know there are several casks of it.’ They found the bazaar empty, but from time to time a Russian, or one of the enemy, passed by. The cook went for her sugar and tea, and he for his honey. ‘When you are ready,’ he said, ‘wait for me, I shall soon find what I want.’ She put tea and sugar into her napkin and waited for her companion, but for some time no one appeared. So she took refuge in a shop and said her prayers. Suddenly she heard Sidor call, ‘Anicioushka, my pigeon, where are you?’ She stept outside and stood spell-bound with fear; all the shops were empty, but coming towards her was a man—no, not a man—a monster. She could not make out what it was. When, however, it came closer, and she discovered what it was, she thought she must have died with laughter. There stood Sidor dripping with honey from head to foot. On his head one might have thought he wore a hood; of the face there was not a trace. “The victim explained that when he began to fill his pot with honey, three men came up and said, ‘Give up your pot!’ He refused. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘did you come empty-handed?’ ‘Give up the pot!’ they repeated. Sidor Karpowitch clutched his pot tightly, and made off, but he was soon overtaken. His pursuers snatched the pot out of his hands, and threw him into the cask, head downwards. ‘I saw nothing; I was stifled; I began to wriggle and managed to raise my head. But then my feet sank in; my nose, eyes, mouth, were all covered with honey. I do not know how long my martyrdom lasted, but at last I felt that I was growing giddy. Then I summoned up all my courage, caught hold of the edge of the cask, and pulled myself out!’ Later, many years later,” adds the Matouschka, “we could never think of this incident without laughing. The wife of the sexton, who is fond of her joke, says, whenever she sees my cousin, ‘Will you not take some honey, Sidor Karpowitch, you are so very fond of it, are you not?’” Long processions of the citizens of Moscow, carrying the sacred _ikons_ and the vessels of the Mass, left by all the gates of the city, lamenting and singing plaintive songs. A legend states that on that terrible day a sword of fire was seen in the heavens at Moscow—a miracle that helped to complete the terror of the few thousands who remained behind, out of a population of nearly a third of a million. Meantime the French were occupying Moscow, spreading, as Kutuzof said, like a sponge in water. Some of them only passed through the streets and bivouacked in the suburbs and adjoining villages; others, belonging to the Guard, took up their quarters in the Kremlin itself.