Levitsky produced another bottle of strong blackthorn homemade liqueur and poured everyone a full glass. It inflamed their minds and they burst into another song when suddenly a wooden cuckoo popped out of its neatly carved “house” on the wall clock and announced the hour. Shevchenko clutched his head.
“Oh, my goodness! It’s half past one! The gates of the fortress are closed at midnight!”
“Stay the night at our place,” the young men said, unabashed. “Tomorrow, that is, today is a Sunday and we’ll deal with the unpleasant consequences through the very same Matveiev.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to, because I’ve got a leave pass for two days,” Shevchenko put their minds at ease. “But I’m afraid I’ll be too much of a bother to you.”
“Oh no!” Lazarevsky exclaimed. “We’re very glad to hav
