A Second thought made him lean a little, listening closely, and then he discovered that after this terrific trial Abra was breathing deep and free. Connor sat straight again and smiled. They must be close to the lake he had seen from the mountain, for among the trees to his left was a faint gleam of water. A moment later this glimmer¹ went out, and the hoofbeats of Abra were muffled² on turf. They had left the road and headed for a scattering³ of lights. Joseph had drawn⁴ the mare⁵ back to a hand-gallop, and Abra followed the example; at this rocking gait they swept through the grove⁶ between two long, low buildings, always climbing, and came suddenly upon a larger house. On three sides Connor looked down upon water; the building was behind him. Not a light showed in it, but he made out the low, single story, the sense of weight, and crude arches of the Mission style. Through an opening in the center of the façade he looked into darkness which he knew must be the patio⁷.  
Following the example of Joseph, he dismounted, and while the big man, with his waddling⁸, difficult walk, disappeared into the court, Connor stepped back and looked over Abra. Starlight was enough to see him by, for he glimmered⁹ with running sweat even in the semidarkness, but it was plain from his high head and inquisitive¹⁰ muzzle¹¹ that he was neither winded nor down-hearted. He followed Connor like a dog when the gambler went in turn to the mare. She turned about nervously¹² to watch the newcomer. Not until Abra had touched noses with her and perhaps spoken to her the dumb horse-talk would she allow Connor to come close, and even then he could not see her as clearly as the stallion. By running his finger-tips over her he discovered the reason—only on the flanks and across the breast was she wet with perspiration¹³, and barely moist on the thighs¹⁴ and belly¹⁵. The race had winded her no more than a six-furlong canter.
 
He was still marveling at this discovery when Joseph appeared under the arch carrying a lantern and beckoned¹⁶ him in, leading the way to a large patio, surrounded by a continuous arcade¹⁷. In the center a fountain was alternately silver and shadow in the swinging lantern light. The floor of the patio was close-shaven turf.
 
Joseph hung the lantern on the inside of one of the arches and turned to Connor, apparently¹⁸ to invite him to take one of the chairs under the arcade. Instead, he raised his hand to impose silence. Connor heard, from some distance, a harsh sound of breathing of inconceivable strength. For though it was plainly not close to them, he could mark each intake¹⁹ and expulsion of breath. And the noise created for him the picture of a monster.
 
"Let us go to the master," said Joseph, and turned straight across the patio in the direction of that sonorous²⁰ breathing.
 
Connor followed, by no means at ease. From the withered²¹ old men to huge Joseph had been a long step. How far would be the reach between Joseph himself and the omnipotent²² master?
 
He passed in the track of Joseph toward the rear of the patio. Presently the big man halted, removed his hat, and faced a door beneath the arcade. It was only a momentary²³ interruption. He went on again at once, replacing his hat, but the thrill of apprehension²⁴ was still tingling²⁵ in the blood of the gambler. Now they went under the arcade, through an open door, and issued in the rear of the house, Connor's imaginary "monster" dissolved.
 
For they stood in front of a blacksmith shop, the side toward them being entirely²⁶ open so that Connor could see the whole of the interior. Two sooty lanterns hung from the rafters, the light tangling²⁷ among wreaths of smoke above and showing below a man whose back was turned toward them as he worked a great snoring bellows²⁸ with one hand.
 
That bellows was the source of the mysterious breathing. Connor chuckled²⁹; all mysteries dissolved as this had done the moment one confronted them. He left off chuckling³⁰ to admire the ease with which the blacksmith handled the bellows. A massive angle of iron was buried in the forge, the white flames spurting³¹ around it as the bellows blew, casting the smith into high relief at every pulse of the fire. Sometimes it ran on the great muscles of the arm that kept the bellows in play; sometimes it ran a dazzling outline around his entire body, showing the leather apron³² and the black hair which flooded down about his shoulders.
 
"Who—" began Connor.
 
"Hush," cautioned Joseph in a whisper. "David speaks when he chooses—not sooner."
 
Here the smith laid hold on the iron with long pincers, and, raising it from the coals, at once the shop burst with white light as David placed the iron on the anvil³³ and caught up a short-handled sledge³⁴. He whirled it and brought it down with a clangor. The sparks spurted³⁵ into the night, dropping to the ground and turning red at the very feet of Connor. Slowly David turned the iron, the steady shower of blows bending it, changing it, molding it under the eye of the gambler. This was that clangor which had floated through the clear mountain air to him when he first gazed down on the valley; this was the bell-like murmur³⁶ which had washed down to him through the gates of the valley.
 
At least it was easy to understand why the servants feared him. A full fourteen pounds was in the head of that sledge, Connor guessed, yet David whirled it with a light and deft³⁷ precision. Only the shuddering³⁹ of the anvil told the weight of those blows. Meantime, with every leap of the spark-showers the gambler studied the face of the master. They were features of strength rather than beauty from the frowning forehead to the craggy jaw⁴⁰. A sort of fierce happiness lived in that face now, the thought of the craftsman⁴¹ and the joy of the laborer⁴³ in his strength.
 
As the white heat passed from the iron and it no longer flowed into a shape so readily under the hammer of the smith, a change came in him. Connor knew nothing of ironcraft, but he guessed shrewdly that another man would have softened⁴⁴ the metal with fire again at this point. Instead, David chose to soften⁴⁵ it with strength. The steady patter of blows increased to a thundering rain as the iron turned a dark and darker red.
 
The rhythm of the worker grew swifter, did not break, and Connor watched with a keen eye of appreciation⁴⁶. Just as a great thoroughbred makes its supreme⁴⁷ effort in the stretch by a lengthening⁴⁸ and slight quickening of stride, but never a dropping into the choppy pace of unskilled labor⁴² at speed, so the man at the anvil was now rocking steadily⁴⁹ back and forth⁵⁰ from heel to toe, the knees unflexing a little as he struck and stiffening⁵¹ as he swung up the hammer. The greater effort was told only by the greater ring of the hammer face on the hardening iron—by that and by the shudder³⁸ of the arm of the smith as the fourteen pounds went clanging home to the stroke.
 
And now the iron was quite dark—the smith stood with the ponderous⁵² sledge poised⁵³ above his head and turned the bar swiftly, with study, to see that the angle was exactly what he wished. The hammer did not descend⁵⁴ again on the iron; the smith was content, and plunging⁵⁵ the big angle iron into the tempering tub, his burly shoulders were obscured for a moment by a rising cloud of steam.
 
He stepped out of this and came directly to them. Now the lantern was behind him, he was silhouetted⁵⁶ in black, a mighty⁵⁷ figure. He was panting from hi............