THE VINTAGE
Yanni, who knew the village, soon recognized the house to which they were going, which stoad somewhat apart from the others, and had a low outlying building a stone's-throw below it.
"That is the house," he said, "and that shed near is the mill. There is a big stream coming down from the mountains there which turns the wheel."
"They should grind quickly, then. Shall we go on?"
The house in question they found was entered from a yard, the door of which was closed, and their knocking only seemed to rouse a dog inside to the top pitch of fury. But at last a woman came out on the wooden balcony overlooking the street, and asked them what they wanted.
"We want Yorgi Gregoriou," shouted Yanni. "Ah, do you not remember me?"
The woman took up a piece of wood and threw it, as a man throws with force and precision, at the dog inside. The barking broke off short in a staccato howl, and Mitsos guessed that she had hit.
"Yanni Mavromichales, is it not?" asked the woman.
"Surely."
She disappeared into the house, and in a moment her step was heard across the yard. As soon as the door was opened the dog flew out like a cork from a bottle, only to find himself between the devil and the deep sea—his mistress, an authentic terror, standing on one side, and Mitsos' whip flirting out at him like the tongue of a snake on the other. So he scuffled away to a safe distance and barked himself out of all shape.
"Come in, Yanni," said Gregoriou's wife. "What brings you here?"
"A message from Petrobey to Gregoriou."
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