from the dust-filled throat of the furnace a cutting blue comet, lined
with crackling and dazzling white, and therein the man forges.

Purpling as his agitation rises, nailed to his imprisoning corner,
alone of his kind, a rebel against all the immensity of things, the man
forges.

* * * * * *

The church bell rang, and we left him there. When I was leaving I
heard Brisbille growl. No doubt I got my quietus as well. But what
can he have imagined against _me_?

We meet again, all mixed together in the Place de l'Eglise. In our
part of the town, except for a clan of workers whom one keeps one's eye
on, every one goes to church, men as well as women, as a matter of
propriety, out of gratitude to employers or lords of the manor, or by
religious conviction. Two streets open into the Place and two roads,
bordered with apple-trees, as well, so that these four ways lead town
and country to the Place.

It has the shape of a heart, and is delightful. It is shaded by a very
old tree, under which justice was formerly administered. That is why
they call it the Great Tree, although there are greater ones. In
winter it is dark, like a perforated umbrella. In summer it gives the
bright green shadow of a parasol. Beside the tree a tall crucifix
dwells in the Place forever.

The Place is swarming and undulating. Peasants from the surrounding
country, in their plain cotton caps, are waiting in the old corner of