But later she had heard that the girl was the miller's wife, that he drank, that he was jealous, and kept his wife imprisoned with him in the mill. Evidently a tragedy was being played in the interior of this prehistoric habitation! The running water, the turning wheel, were reciting the eternal tale of human grief--were singing of the jealous, tipsy, disagreeable old man, and of the girl, fiery as her curls, brooding continually over rebellious and sinful thoughts. The boat, laden with workmen, touched the shore, and Regina recognised one or two whom she knew. They invited her to go with them to the mill, to eat _gnocchi_.[6] [6] _Gnocchi._ A favourite Italian sweet dish. She agreed. The Po was becoming more and more splendid, reflecting the whole west, the great golden clouds, the reversed woods. An enchanted land seemed to be submerged there in the water. Regina admired and was silent, listening to the lively chatter of her companions. They were talking of ghosts. Old Joachin, the rich miller--big, purple-faced, goggle-eyed--one night, when he was passing along the bank in his cart, saw a huge white dog, which jumped out of a bush and silently and obstinately followed him. Who could believe this dog a dog? It was a spirit. And one moonshiny night Petrin the boatman had seen from the river a most strange, glistening creature flying along the shore. "A bicycle," pronounced old Joachin, beating his empty pipe against the palm of his hand. "Oh, very well! Then your white dog was just a white dog!" Presently the party arrived at the mill. The miller came forward, all smiles, and stretched out his hand to Regina. "_Ma benissimo!_ This is an honour, Signora Regina! I know you well; and here is my wife, who knows you quite well too!" The ruddy young woman hung back shyly. "How do you do?" said Regina, looking at her curiously. She noticed that the miller was not quite so old nor the woman so young as they had seemed from the distance. The inside of the mill was very clean. A fire was burning at the foot of the plank bed. Pots and pans of red earthenware were arranged on the dresser. The mechanism of the mill was of the most primitive pattern. Two large, round stones of a bluish hue were revolving one upon the other, moved by the wheel. The flour slipped out slowly, falling into a sack. And the wheel turned and turned, pursued, battered, lashed by the noisy water. Wheel and water seemed to be whirling in a fight, merry in appearance, pitiless and cruel in reality. Old Joachin took his wife by the shoulder and shook her. "Go and make the _gnocchi_, woman! Make them as fat as your fingers!" She giggled, looking at her hands, which were enormous, then took flour and kneaded it with river water.