Yegorushka called the old man once more. Getting no answer, he sat motionless, and no longer waited for it all to end. He was convinced that the thunder would kill him in another minute, that he would accidentally open his eyes and see the terrible giants, and he left off crossing himself, calling the old man and thinking of his mother, and was simply numb with cold and the conviction that the storm would never end.

But at last there was the sound of voices.

“Yegory, are you asleep?” Panteley cried below. “Get down! Is he deaf, the silly little thing?⁠ ⁠…”

“Something like a storm!” said an unfamiliar bass voice, and the stranger cleared his throat as though he had just tossed off a good glass of vodka.

Yegorushka opened his eyes. Close to the wagon stood Panteley, Emelyan, looking like a triangle, and the giants. The latter were by now much shorter, and when Yegorushka looked more closely at them they turned out to be ordinary peasants, carrying on their shoulders not pikes but pitchforks. In the space between Panteley and the triangular figure, gleamed the window of a low-pitched hut. So the wagons were halting in the village. Yegorushka flung off the mat, took his bundle and made haste to get off the wagon. Now when close to him there were people talking and a lighted window he no longer felt afraid, though the thunder was crashing as before and the whole sky was streaked with lightning.

“It was a good storm, all right,⁠ ⁠…” Panteley was muttering. “Thank God,⁠ ⁠… my feet are a little softened by the rain. It was all right.⁠ ⁠… Have you got down, Yegory? Well, go into the hut; it is all right.⁠ ⁠…”

“Holy, holy, holy!” wheezed Emelyan, “it must have struck something.⁠ ⁠… Are you of these parts?” he asked the giants.