"Don't be afraid. To-night we shall have a roof above our heads." He was right. At the first hut at which we knocked and asked for a night's lodging we were hospitably invited to come in. The "guid man" of the hut, a big, good-natured fellow, had just come in from the fields where he had been ploughing, his "guid wife" was making supper ready. Four grimy little children, huddled into a heap in a corner of the room, peeped out at us from thence with timid, inquisitive eyes. The buxom housewife bustled about from the hut to the outhouse swiftly and silently, bringing bread and water-melons and milk. The master of the house sat down on a bench opposite to us rubbing his stomach with an air of concentration, and fixing penetrating glances upon us. Presently the usual question came from him: "Where are you going?" "We're going, dear man, from sea to sea, to the city of Kiev," replied Promtov cheerfully in the words of the old cradle song. "What is there to be seen at Kiev?" inquired the "guid man" meditatively. "The holy relics." The "guid man" looked at Promtov in silence and spat. Then after a pause he asked: "And from whence do you come?" "I from Petersburg, he from Moscow," answered Promtov. "All that way?"--the "guid man" raised his brows. "And what's Petersburg like? Folks say that it is built upon the sea and that it is often under water."[4] Here the door opened and two other _khokhli_[5] came in. "We want a word with you, Michael," said one of them. "What have you got to say to me?" "It's this--who are these people?" [4] The peasant uses the Ruthenian dialect, the effect of which is lost in a translation. [5] "Tuft-headed," the name given to the Little Russians by the Great Russians, from their mode of wearing their hair. "These?" asked our host, nodding his head at us. "Yes." Our host was silent and thoughtful, he scratched his head a bit. "I should like to know myself," he explained. "Maybe you are pilgrims?" they inquired of us. "Yes!" replied Promtov. A long silence prevailed, in the course of which the three _khokhli_ regarded us doggedly, suspiciously, and inquisitively. At last they all sat down to table and began, with loud crunching, to consume the crimson water-melons. "Maybe one of you is a scholar?" said one of the _khokhli,_ turning towards Promtov. "Both!" curtly replied Promtov "Then perchance you know what a man ought to do when his backbone smarts and itches to that degree that he cannot sleep o' nights?" "We do know," replied Promtov. "What?" Promtov went on chewing his bread for a long time, dried his hands on his rags, then pensively regarded the ceiling and, at last, observed decisively and even severely: "Break up a loaf and get your old woman at night to rub your spine with the crummy part, and afterwards anoint it with hemp-oil and fat ... that's all!" "What will come of it?" inquired the _khokhol_.[6] [6] Singular of khokhli. "Nothing," and Promtov shrugged his shoulders.