"Jadwiś!" called the miller, wiping his short moustache with his hand.
A strong and very good-looking girl, not wearing a peasant's dress, appeared from a side room. She threw a keen glance at the peasants, and, taking the bowl in her arm, went out again with a rolling gait.
"What is this business?" began the miller, taking snuff.
Not a hand was stretched out towards the snuff; the peasants' faces had suddenly clouded. Someone cleared his throat, others scratched their heads in indecision, and they all looked at Jędrzej, who, straightening himself and fixing his light, searching eyes on the miller, said slowly:
"We have come to make you tell us who the thieves were."
The miller started back, stared, spread out his arms, and stuttered: "In the Name of the Father and the Son! How should I know that?..."
"We think you are the man to know," Jędrzej said in a lower voice, standing up. The other peasants also got up, and planted themselves round the miller in a circle, like a thick wall, fixing him with eyes as keen as a hawk's, so that the blood mounted to his face. "We have come to you for the truth," Jędrzej whispered impressively.
"And you must tell us—you've got to!" the rest echoed in low, stern voices.
"What truth? Are you mad? How am I to know? Am I a party to thieves? Or what?..." He spoke quickly, turning the light up and down with trembling hands.
"We know very well that you're honest; but you know who the thieves are. So come, how was it? They stole your horses in the autumn, but you did nothing; and not long ago they stole money from you—you even caught them in your bedroom—and again you did nothing and didn't have them taken up, and never even told the policeman about them."