In the house of Gavril Afanassievitch, to the right vestibule, was a narrow room with one window. There stood a simple bed covered with a woollen counter. In front of the bed was a small deal table, on which a candle was burning, and some sheets of music lay. On the wall hung an old blue uniform and its contemporary, a three-cornered hat; above it, fastened by three nails hung a rude picture representing Charles XII. on horseback. The notes of a flute resounded through this humble mansion. The captive dancing-master, its lonely occupant in night-cap and nankeen dressing-gown, was relieving the dulness of a winter's evening, by playing some old Swedish marches. After devoting two whole hours to this exercise, the Swede took his flute to pieces, placed it in a box and began to undress....
The End