'Go away, gospodarz,' hurriedly cried the old woman, pushing him towards the door, 'she is getting excited, it isn't good for her.'
'Josef!' cried Slimakowa, 'come back! Josef, I must speak to you!' The peasant hesitated.
'You are doing no good,' whispered the schoolmaster, 'she is rambling, she may go to sleep when you are out of sight.'
He drew Slimak into the passage, and Fritz Hamer at once took him to the further room.
Miller Knap and old Hamer were sitting at a brightly lighted table behind their beer mugs, blowing clouds of smoke from their pipes. The miller had the appearance of a huge sack of flour as he sat there in his shirtsleeves, holding a full pot of beer in his hand and wiping the perspiration off his forehead. Gold studs glittered in his shirt.
'Well, you are going to let us have your land at last?' he shouted.
'I don't know,' said the peasant in a low voice, 'maybe I shall sell it.' The miller roared with laughter.
'Wilhelm,' he bellowed, as if Wilhelm, who was officiating at the beer-barrel on the bench, were half a mile off, 'pour out some beer for this man. Drink to my health and I'll drink to yours, although you never used to bring me your corn to grind. But why didn't you sell us your land before?'
'I don't know,' said the peasant, taking a long pull.
'Fill up his glass,' shouted the miller, 'I will tell you why; it's because you don't know your own mind. Determination is what you want. I've said to myself: I will have a mill at Wolka, and a mill at Wolka I have, although the Jews twice set fire to it. I said: My son shall be a doctor, and a doctor he will be. And now I've said: Hamer, your son must have a windmill, so he must have a windmill. Pour out another glass, Wilhelm, good beer…eh? my son-in-law brews it. What? no more beer? Then we'll go to bed.'