but I swear, Your Lordship, it was only one, and it was lying on the ground.”

“So you don’t know how to read, but you do know how to steal. Well, at least that’s something. Knowledge is a heavy burden. And have you been stealing for a long time?”

“But I wasn’t stealing.”

“What about your sweet little bride here?” Karpushka asked the boy. “Why is she so sad? Don’t you love her enough?”

“No more of that, Karpushka!” Trifon Semyonovich snapped. “Well, Grigory, I want you to tell us a story.”

The boy cleared his throat nervously and smiled.

“I don’t know any stories, Your Lordship,” he said. “And it’s not like I need your apples. If I want some, I can buy some.”

“My dear fellow, I am delighted that you have so much money. Come, tell us a story. I am all ears, Karpushka is all ears, and your pretty little bride is all ears. Don’t be shy. Be brave! A thief’s heart must be brave! Is that not so, my friend?”

Trifon Semyonovich rested his venomous eyes on the crestfallen boy. Beads of sweat gathered on the boy’s forehead.

“Why don’t you tell him to sing a song instead?” Karpushka piped up in his tinny tenor. “You can’t expect a fool like that to come up with a story.”

“Quiet, Karpushka! Let him tell us a story! Well, go on, my dear fellow.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

“So you can’t tell a story, but you can steal. What does the Eighth Commandment say?”

“I don’t know, Your Lordship, but I swear we only ate one apple, and it was lying on the ground.”

“Tell me a story!”

Karpushka began gathering nettles. The boy knew perfectly well why. Trifon Semyonovich, like all his kind, is a master at taking the law into his own hands. He will lock a thief up in his cellar for a day and a night, or flog him with nettles, or let him go right away—but not before stripping him naked and keeping his clothes. This surprises you? There are people for whom this is as commonplace as an old cart. Grigory peered sheepishly at the nettles, hesitated, cleared his throat, and launched into what was more a tangle of nonsense than anything resembling a story. Gasping, sweating, clearing his throat, blowing his nose, he muttered something about ancient Russian heroes fighting ogres and marrying beautiful maidens. Trifon Semyonovich stood listening, his eyes fixed on the storyteller.

“That’ll do,” he said when the young man’s tale finally fell apart completely. “You are an excellent storyteller, but an even better thief. As for you, my pretty little thing,” he said, turning to the girl, “say the Lord’s Prayer.”

The girl blushed and said the Lord’s Prayer, barely audibly and with hardly a breath.

“Now, how about the Eighth Commandment?”

“We didn’t take a lot,” the boy replied, desperately waving his arms. “I swear by the Holy Cross!”

“It is very bad, my dear children, that you don’t know this commandment. I will have to teach it to you. Tell me, my pretty one, did this fellow teach you how to steal? Why so silent, my little angel? You must answer me.