"Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all my life, and still I do not always succeed."
"Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough, food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no need of it?"
"That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young head."
"Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will."
"The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose the lord cares for the needs of one man?"
"But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for nothing."
At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched and his eyes bloodshot.
"They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your lord himself will not be able to help you."
"And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down.
His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to smile.