In the doorway of the mill stood a youth clad in the usual coarse cloth "_guba_" and half concealed by the door post.

In one hand he held a double-barrelled musket, an implement not absolutely necessary for a miller.

The old man addressed him while still a good way off: "_Che timpu ?_"[17] [Footnote 17: What sort of weather ?] "_Luna plina._"[18] [Footnote 18: Full moon.] A strange sort of greeting, more like an exchange of pass-words.
Then both the new arrivals entered the mill in the midst of which a dilapidated grinding machine was revolving, the central wheel was minus a couple of teeth.
"Plenty of grinding going on, Paul ?" asked the old man.
"Quite enough." "Help me down with this sack." "It is heavy certainly," said the other, panting beneath the strain, "how much does it hold ?" "A hundredweight and eighty pounds." "No mere Turkish maize, eh ?" "Stop the wheel!" The young man at once obeyed by driving an iron beam clean through the wheel which brought the machinery to a standstill.

Then he raised the central revolving disc which was in connection with the millstone, hung in the hook of the millstone an iron chain which was wound round the beam and this done, laid the sack and its contents on the bolting-hutch.
Then the old man himself, sat down on the hutch and extended his hand to the girl.

"Jump on Anicza." And the girl jumped on without help for she was as agile as a chamois.
"Paul," said the old man to the young journeyman, "was not Fatia Negra here before us ?" "He has not been through here either to-day or yesterday.