"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.
"My cousin," said Yanni, "who comes with me on the business of the corn. Oh, all our necks are in one noose. Do not be afraid."
The little old man seemed strangely reassured at this brutality of frankness, and setting the door wide—"Come in, both of you," he said, shortly.