"Certainly will you be beaten if you are caught. Go quickly. My grandfather is the steward—has no one told you? But what do you do in the house?"
"Now I know. You are the one they call the little wine-smuggler. Certainly you climb well enough for that. But if you practise this sort of thing you will inevitably suffer."
At that the boy said rather glumly in a sort of monologue: "They attach that name to me for motives of jealousy because they fear that the master may unduly favour me. In any case I only smuggled for a month or so. There was nothing particular in what I did. I have never defrauded others. From the stables there is a constant removal of grain: all share in this dishonesty, and yet they do not hesitate to make unjust remarks about myself."
He was distinctly angry. Something in him rebelled at the fact that a stranger and a woman should know him by a nasty nickname. He felt humiliated. And inclination came over him to slide down the tree without another word. But just then the girl asked:
"Will you risk climbing up again?"
He shook his head.
"It seems a stupid business. I hear nothing good about myself when I do. And there is always the danger of punishment."
Then there was silence. Above the blue-black sky had lost its last hint of orange and yellow. Night was fast coming on in this land of no twilight. Within a few minutes it would be pitch-dark.
"The other side is less dangerous," said the girl, suddenly pointing to the north. "You can reach it by going round the outhouse where the plants are kept."