This was a good olive year and the press was at work night and day. Two _ettolitri_ of olives produced about two _litri_ of oil. Near the door stood a tin for oil to feed the lamps of this or that Madonna; pious persons poured into it a few drops from each load of olives. All round the press the floor was crowded with barrels and tubs, with sacks of black, shining olives, with heaps of steaming refuse. The whole place was dark, hot, dirty. The cauldron was always boiling, the wheel turned by the big bay horse was always in motion, always distilling oil. The smell of the husks, though too strong, was not exactly disagreeable. The furnace sent out a fine heat, and round it in the long chilly evenings were gathered all the coldest persons of the neighbourhood. Beside the miller and his staff, five or six people came regularly. Efès Cau, once a man of means, now reduced by drink to extreme poverty, slept almost nightly at the mill, contaminating the corner where he lay, to the great annoyance of cleaner persons. Anania and Bustianeddu sat in a corner on a heap of hot husks, amused by the talk of their elders, delighted by the absurdities of the drunken Efès. Uncle Pera offered him wine; but Franziscu Carchide, the handsome young shoemaker, interposed. "No, no, Efès, if you don't dance, you don't drink. You must sing too. Come!" "'When Amelia so pure and so pale----'" Anania and Bustianeddu laughed till their sides ached, squatting on the husks like a pair of chickens. "Let's put pins where he sleeps," suggested Bustianeddu. "What for?" asked the more kindly Anania. "To prick him, of course. Then he'll dance with a vengeance. I've brought the pins." "All right," said the other, unwillingly. The sot was still dancing, singing, reeling, stretching his hand to the glass. The people and the children laughed. Then came Nanna, the drunken woman, cleaner and more sober than usual. "Aren't you ashamed?" she said, seizing Efès by the arm; "don't you see all these beggars, these filthy persons are mocking you? And what are they laughing at me for? I've been out working to-day. Good Lord, how I have worked! Ah, Efès, Efès! have you forgotten how rich your house used to be? Your mother had gold buttons as big as my fist. Your house was like a church, so clean, so full of fine things. If you had kept from the drink, everyone would have treasured you like a sugar plum. Now you're a laughing-stock, like a dancing bear. What are they laughing at now? By the Lord, they must be all drunk! Come, miller, spare me a drop of oil to eat with my supper. Your wife is a saint, miller, but upon my word you are a devil. When are you going to find that treasure you talk about?" Meanwhile Efès, seated on a sack, wept, thinking of his mother and the rich home of his youth. Carchide strove to console him with another glass, but Efès wept on, even while he drank.