dungeon- like interior, thinking to tell his father all about it.

The woman beside the table scowled darkly as she saw the group.

"What now?" she demanded. "Are those the spies? They are nothing but
boys! Why do you bother with them, Michael Paovla, why did you bring
them here? Crack them on the head! The river runs swift enough down
the street there."

She brandished her knife as she spoke.

"I will not give them one single meal, do, you hear that?"

"Peace, Martha! Do not jest," said the large man with a wry smile.

He looked at Ivan as he spoke.

"Who are you?" he asked. Clothed as the boy was in mean and soiled
garments, there was still something distinguished about him.

He stood proudly erect. Perhaps his name would help out.

"Ivan Ivanovich, of the House of Sabriski," he said, looking the man in
the face.

The three shouted with laughter. "Isn't he clever?" cried the woman.
"Ask him something else!"

"No," said the man. "I want to think that over. Come, it is cold
here!"