The guests sat about the tables, while the children clamored at their elders’ elbows. The feast was at its height. Among the men several of the guests already lay under the table. Of the women most were intoxicated. Some sat wagging their heads. Others were awakened now and then to shrill merriment. Still others drank little and sat chanting solemnly, keeping up dutifully the burden of the rites. In the dancers’ corner several couples whirled in a quadrille. In one of these Natalka flashed in and out. Natalka’s face was still solemn and dignified. But a twinkle of mischief and coquettishness was in her eyes. Her husband was dancing in the same quadrille. Whenever they had to dance opposite each other her eyes teased him; her little red hand extended and withdrew half-way, and Simyonka was tantalized and radiant. Further a circle of young folk surrounded the great-grandfather of the village, dancing a jig. His hands on his hips, his white beard flowing, his head high, a smile on his lips, his aged limbs performed with wonderful agility. He toed to the right, he toed to the left, here he crossed, there he kneeled. And the fiddlers fiddled with all their might, and the women clapped, and the men cheered and stamped. “Trala-lala-lala.” At one table Katherina sat among her guests. Leaning to this one and that one, she urged: “Another piece of pork? Some more _kvass_?” She herself neither ate nor drank. Her face was ashen white. Her eyes were fastened on Gavrelo, who sat at the side of Simyonka’s father. At the other table Gavrelo, urged by Simyonka’s father, had drunk deeply. This was the second time in his life he had drunk. His face was purple, he talked incoherently, and he sat gazing about him helplessly, as if he could not make out what had happened to him. Simyonka’s father was leaning on the table to keep his balance; but being accustomed to vodka he had not quite lost his wits. “You--you half a fine stock of cattle,” he told Gavrelo, dealing him a complimentary blow on the back. “You half fine cowsh!” Gavrelo threw his head back to drain a glassful, and drew it back with difficulty, then sat swaying. “Fine cowsh,” mumbled Simyonka’s father. Gavrelo turned his head and eyed his new relative with a vacant stare. Then came the dreaded question. Katherina, watching from her table, sat as still as if cut from stone. “What--what ish Natalka’s portion, Gavrelo?” Many bleared eyes were turned on Gavrelo. This would be the first time Gavrelo had given anything in his life. Some of the villagers actually sobered for a moment and stared. “Natalka’s portion?” Simyonka’s father insisted with drunken stubbornness.