“That’s right, that’s right, little birdies!” thought the miller, peering out from behind his gnarled willow-tree. “Remember, my duckies, how many songs Philipko has sung with you, how many dances he has led! See what trouble I’m in! Save me; I’m caught like a fly in a cobweb!”
He thought that if only they were to give the devil one little pinch the fiend would sink into the ground.
But old Buchilikha stopped the girls and exclaimed:
“Get along with you, little magpies, you’ve laughed at the poor lad till his nose hangs down and his arms are limp. Tell us, young fellow, for whom are you waiting here at the edge of the pond?”
“For the miller.”
“Then you’re a friend of his?”
“A plague upon any friend of mine that’s like him!” the miller tried to cry, but his words stuck in his throat, and the devil replied:
“He’s no very great friend of mine, but I can call him an old acquaintance.”
“Is it long since you’ve seen him?”
“Yes, a long time.”