Count Ichu Yanippelov rode into the village on his tall white horse. The villagers brought out their daughters and he tutted disappointedly until his eye fell on the white throat of the miller’s only child. He beckoned and she came to his stirrup.
“She will do.”
Somebody lifted her onto the rump of the count’s steed and he set spur to the animal’s sides. They set off at a frenzied gallop with the girl clinging on behind.
When the autumn winds began to blow, Lady Donya Chumanippelov rode into the village of her birth on a tall, black horse.
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