"I suppose it goes into the sea," I replied, perceiving that he wished to chaff me.
"Correct," he answered. "Go to the head."
"May I come into the mill?" I asked, for I had never seen one, and the varied noises excited my curiosity.
"Why, certainly," the man said. "Pull the latch-string in the door yonder and come in."
The mill not only sawed the long pine trunks into planks and squared timbers, of which there was a profusion about, but also ground most of the grain for the neighborhood. As I entered, the stones were grumbling and the air was full of dust.
"What is it you're making?" I shouted into the tall man's ear. He had greeted me at the doorway.
"Buckwheat cakes," he replied, thrusting his hand into the top of an open sack. "Ye're a stranger here, ain't ye?"
I knew what to expect by this time, and that probably my appearance had determined the miller to find out all he could about me merely for his own satisfaction. So, half shouting in his ear, I related (by the answering of questions) part of my story—at least I told him where I had come from and the why and wherefore of my trip. When it came to the asking for my uncle's place of residence I ran against trouble, and my heart sank.
"What is the name?" asked the thin man when I had first mentioned it.
"Monsieur Henri Amedee Lavalle de Brienne."