“Does he keep an inn?”
“Does he? He keeps two: one in the village and one by the side of the road.”
“Ha! ha! ha! And is that why you would be sorry to lose the miller?”
“Oi, what a loud laugh you have! Ha! I’m not the fellow to be sorry on the miller’s account. No, I didn’t mean that at all. He’s not a man to be sorry for. He thinks poor Gavrilo’s a fool. And he’s right too. I’m not very clever—don’t think ill of me for it—but still, when I eat I don’t put my porridge in another man’s mouth, but into my own. And if I get married it will be for myself, and if I don’t get married it will be for myself too. Am I right or not?”
“You’re right, you’re right, but I don’t yet know what you’re driving at.”
“Hee, hee, perhaps you don’t know because you don’t need to. But I need to know, and I do know why he wants to get me married. Oi, I know it very well, even though I’m not very bright. When you carried Yankel away that time I was sorry to see him go, and I said to my master: Well, who is going to keep the inn for us now? And he answered: Bah, you fool, do you think some one won’t turn up? Perhaps I’ll keep it myself! That’s why I say now: take the miller if you want him; we’ll find some one else to be a Jew in his place. And now let me tell you, my good man—good gracious, your honour, don’t think ill of me for calling a foul fiend a man!—and now let me tell you something: I’m getting terribly sleepy. Do as you please, but catch him yourself; I’m going to bed, I am, because I’m not very well. That will be splendid. Ah!”
Gavrilo’s legs began weaving again, and he had hardly opened the door of the mill before he fell down and began to snore.
The devil laughed merrily, and, going to the edge of the dam, beckoned to Yankel where he stood under the sycamore tree.
“You seem to have won, Yankel,” he shouted. “It looks very much like it. But give me something to wear, all the same; I’ll pay you for it.”
Yankel took a pair of breeches to the light and looked them over to be sure he wasn’t giving the devil a new pair, and while he was busy with them, an ox-cart appeared on the road leading out of the wood. The oxen were sleepily nodding their heads, the wheels were quietly squeaking, and in the cart lay a peasant, Opanas the Slow, without a coat, without a hat, without boots, bawling a song at the top of his voice.