This was the old man’s usual question: was the country grinding good flour?
“Good, my old friend Simione!”
“Praise be to God!” said the old fellow. “But how are you, sir? You never come to see us. The duck give you no peace!”
“No, they give me no peace. I mean to lie in wait on the bank to-night. Perhaps luck will come my way.”
“Good; may it be as you wish. See, Zamfira will show you the way.”
Just at that moment appeared the miller’s niece. She was a strange girl of sixteen years of age; of middle height and thin, but with well-developed muscles: her cheeks were sunburnt, and she had two grey eyes, eyes so restless and so strange, and of such beauty and such brilliance as I have never seen since. She had not regular features, but the grey eyes beneath the heavy, arched brows gave her an unusual and radiant beauty.
At the old man’s words she stopped suddenly, and said quickly with twinkling eyes:
“I don’t want to show him the way!”
“Why not?” I asked with surprise, while the old man smiled.
“Because I don’t want to!” said Zamfira, looking at me askance.