“The King,” said he.

“We ourselves,” said they, “from the day we became soldiers, go we ‘don’t know where,’ and never yet have we got there; and we seek we ‘don’t know what,’ and cannot find it. We cannot help you.”

Emelyán sat a while with the soldiers and then went on again. He trudged many a mile, and at last came to a wood. In the wood was a hut, and in the hut sat an old, old woman, the mother of peasant soldiers, spinning flax and weeping. And as she spun she did not put her fingers to her mouth to wet them with spittle, but to her eyes to wet them with tears. When the old woman saw Emelyán she cried out at him: “Why have you come here?” Then Emelyán gave her the spindle, and said his wife had sent it.