“He has cut me all over and tired me out⁠—the fool. It is worse than war. The accursed fool never sleeps; one can’t keep up with him. I will get into his stacks now and rot them.”

So the imp entered the rye, and crept among the sheaves, and they began to rot. He heated them, grew warm himself, and fell asleep.

Iván harnessed the mare, and went with the lass to cart the rye. He came to the heaps, and began to pitch the rye into the cart. He tossed two sheaves and again thrust his fork⁠—right into the imp’s back. He lifts the fork and sees on the prongs a live imp; dock-tailed, struggling, wriggling, and trying to jump.

“What, you nasty thing, are you here again?”

“I’m another,” said the imp. “The first was my brother. I’ve been with your brother Simon.”

“Well,” said Iván, “whoever you are, you’ve met the same fate!”