“Anything you tell me to.”

Iván scratched his head.

“My stomach aches,” said he; “can you cure that?”

“Certainly I can.”

“Well then, do so.”

The imp went down into the furrow, searched about, scratched with his claws, and pulled out a bunch of three little roots, which he handed to Iván.

“Here,” says he, “whoever swallows one of these will be cured of any illness.”

Iván took the roots, separated them, and swallowed one. The pain in his stomach was cured at once. The imp again begged to be let off; “I will jump right into the earth, and never come back,” said he.

“All right,” said Iván; “begone, and God be with you!”