THE EVE OF THE GATHERING
The woman's eye travelled slowly up to Mitsos' face, as if she could only take him in by sections.
"And the giant?" she asked. "Is he from a fair?"
Yanni shouted with laughter.
"No; it is my cousin. But we are in a hurry, as we go far to-day. Where shall we find Gregoriou?"
"He is at the mill. You will find him there, and then come back and drink a glass of wine."
The stream that worked the mill was confined within a masonry-laid bed for a hundred yards above the house, to narrow its course and concentrate its energy. From the end of the yard ran out a tall, stout-built wall; along the top of this the water was conducted to a wooden shoot, below which was the mill-wheel. The mill seemed to be in full working order, for an ear-filling booming came from within, shaking the rickety door on its hinges. The two tried the latch, but found it locked, and it was not till Yanni had shonted his name that it was cautiously opened.
"Yanni Mavromichales?" queried a voice from inside.
"No other."
"What do you want?"
"This only. Are you grinding corn?"
There was a pause, but the door was still held ajar only.
"Corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?" asked the voice.
"Black corn for the Turk."
The door was opened and a little wizened man appeared on the threshold. He had a white beard, cut close and pointed, and a pair of heavy eyebrows. His face was a map of minute wrinkles, as the sea is covered with ripples under the land-breeze, and two suspicious eyes peered narrowly out from under their overhanging brows.
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