Sandu rose at daybreak the following day, but he could not have told if he had slept, or whether his thoughts had tormented him all night. He left the workshop without having done anything, he went to the pits, and took the skins out with the pincers to try whether they were ready to dress, then he returned to the workshop and was still quite unsettled.
He went to dinner with the other men; he followed them; had anyone asked him whither he was going he could not have told them. They were alone, and all quite silent, and just this silence was painful to Sandu. He would have liked to hear conversation, a great deal of talking. They were about to rise from the table when the mistress arrived. Everything seemed to turn black before Sandu’s eyes.
After exchanging a few words, Iotza said:
“Mistress, you better let me turn the skins in those two vats——”
“Yes, you turn them, just like Sandu did.”
The blood rushed to his head as Sandu dropped his knife and spilt a piece of lard upon the table.
“Do you think I shall pity you because you don’t eat? You have not turned them well, and that’s all. I didn’t begin to keep a workshop to-day or yesterday.”
“Mistress——”
“Oh, it’s always mistress, mistress! Do your work properly, and don’t let your thoughts go wandering far afield, then no one need find fault with you.”
The workmen rose. Sandu got up too; his feet could hardly carry him, and his head was heavy.