And there lay the village. There was the tavern, closed for the night; there stood the sleeping cottages, and there lay the gardens. There, too, stood the tall poplar tree and the widow's little khata. Old Prisia and her daughter were sitting on a bench at the door, weeping and embracing one another. And why were they weeping? Was it because next day the miller was going to drive them out of their native hut?
The miller's heart leaped. At least these two might give him a kind thought! He plucked up courage and shouted:
"Don't cry, Galya; don't cry, little sweetheart! I'll forgive you all your debts and the interest, too! Oh, I'm in trouble, in worse trouble than you are. The Evil One is carrying me away as a spider carries a little fly."
Tender and sensitive is the heart of a girl! It did not seem possible that Galya could have heard the miller's cry from such a great distance, but she shuddered nevertheless, and raised her dark, weeping eyes to heaven.
"Farewell, farewell, my beautiful black eyes," the miller sighed, and at that instant he saw the girl's hands clutch her breast and heard her rend the air with a piercing scream:
"Drop it, foul fiend! Drop it, it is mine!"
The sound tore at the devil's ears like the mighty swing of a brandished chain. His wings fluttered
