"Ta, ta! And why does he go to Mrozowica to learn that?"
"Bless me! where should he go?"
"Why, I can teach him myself. How much will he pay me to do it?"
Iermola and Chwedko, filled with astonishment, stared at each other in silence.
"You are joking, aren't you? Are you a potter yourself?"
"I am the son of a potter, and I worked six years in glazed pottery. But it is a foolish trade; I am tired of it," answered the man from Mrozowica. "Daub yourself with the glazing, black yourself up with the mixtures, roast yourself in the fire,--that is all the pleasure to be found in it. I spit upon it and left; but that does not prevent my having worked a long time with Father Martin, or hinder me from knowing all about glazing, no matter what colour you wish to use. And my pottery was always bright and polished like glass."
"Really?"
"Bless my heart! if you wish it, I will prove it to you."
"How much will you charge me?" said Iermola, with a bright smile.
"How much will you give me?"