"They should grind quickly, then. Shall we go on?" The house in question they found was entered from a yard, the door of which was closed, and their knocking only seemed to rouse a dog inside to the top pitch of fury. But at last a woman came out on the wooden balcony overlooking the street, and asked them what they wanted. "We want Yorgi Gregoriou," shouted Yanni. "Ah, do you not remember me?" The woman took up a piece of wood and threw it, as a man throws with force and precision, at the dog inside. The barking broke off short in a staccato howl, and Mitsos guessed that she had hit. "Yanni Mavromichales, is it not?" asked the woman. "Surely." She disappeared into the house, and in a moment her step was heard across the yard. As soon as the door was opened the dog flew out like a cork from a bottle, only to find himself between the devil and the deep sea--his mistress, an authentic terror, standing on one side, and Mitsos' whip flirting out at him like the tongue of a snake on the other. So he scuffled away to a safe distance and barked himself out of all shape. "Come in, Yanni," said Gregoriou's wife. "What brings you here?" "A message from Petrobey to Gregoriou." The woman's eye travelled slowly up to Mitsos' face, as if she could only take him in by sections. "And the giant?" she asked. "Is he from a fair?" Yanni shouted with laughter. "No; it is my cousin. But we are in a hurry, as we go far to-day. Where shall we find Gregoriou?" "He is at the mill. You will find him there, and then come back and drink a glass of wine." The stream that worked the mill was confined within a masonry-laid bed for a hundred yards above the house, to narrow its course and concentrate its energy. From the end of the yard ran out a tall, stout-built wall; along the top of this the water was conducted to a wooden shoot, below which was the mill-wheel. The mill seemed to be in full working order, for an ear-filling booming came from within, shaking the rickety door on its hinges. The two tried the latch, but found it locked, and it was not till Yanni had shouted his name that it was cautiously opened. "Yanni Mavromichales?" queried a voice from inside. "No other." "What do you want?" "This only. Are you grinding corn?" There was a pause, but the door was still held ajar only. "Corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?" asked the voice. "Black corn for the Turk." The door was opened and a little wizened man appeared on the threshold. He had a white beard, cut close and pointed, and a pair of heavy eyebrows. His face was a map of minute wrinkles, as the sea is covered with ripples under the land-breeze, and two suspicious eyes peered narrowly out from under their overhanging brows. Mitsos was standing close to the door, and this grotesque little apparition, as he opened it, gave a shrill squeal of dismay, and would have shut it again had not Yanni prevented him. "Who is that?" asked the little man, pointing to Mitsos.