One day the smith fell ill. His breath grew short, and I noticed that
now when he pulled the chain of the bellows, formerly so powerful, it
also gasped and gradually caught the sickness of its master. The man's
heart beat with sudden jumps, and I heard plainly that the hammer
struck the iron irregularly as he brandished it above the anvil. And
in the same degree as the light in the eyes of the man faded, the
flame of the hearth grew dim. In the evenings it wavered more and
more, and there were long intervals when the light vanished on the
walls and ceiling.

One day while at work the man felt his extremities turn to ice. In the
evening he died. I entered the smithy. It was cold as a body deprived
of life. One small ember glowed alone under the chimney, humble
and watching, like the praying women that I found later beside the
death-bed.

Three months later I went into the abandoned workshop to help evaluate
his small amount of property. Everything was damp and black as in a
vault. The leather of the bellows was filled with holes where it had
rotted. When we tried to pull the chain it came loose from the wood.
And the simple people who were making the appraisal with me declared:

"This forge and these hammers are worn out. They ended their life with
the master."

Then I was _moved_, because I _understood_ the mysterious meaning of
these words.