“If you drive the girl and her mother out of their khata she will be glad to live at the mill.”
“I see—well, well——”
VIII
The miller scratched his head in perplexity, and things went on like that, you must know, not only for a day but for almost a year. The miller had hardly had time to look about him before St. Philip’s day had come and gone, and Easter, and Spring, and Summer. Then once again he found himself standing at the door of the tavern, with Kharko leaning against the door post beside him. The moon was shining exactly as it had shone one year before, the river was sparkling as it had sparkled then, the street was just as white, and the same black shadow was lying on the silver ground beside the miller. And something flashed across his memory.
“Listen to me, Kharko!”
“What do you want?”
“What day of the week is it?”
“Monday.”
“It was Saturday last year, do you remember?”
“Saturdays are as thick as flies.”