through Howat's brain like racing birds; the latter's motions were
unsteady, inexact.

The clouds had now widened in a sagging plain across the sky, some
scattered rain pattered coldly on the fallen leaves. It was pleasant
before the hickory burning in the deep fireplace; the Heydricks had
taken for granted that they would wait there for Thomas Gilkan, and they
protested when Howat and Ludowika moved toward the door. But Howat was
restless beyond any possibility of patiently hearing Mrs. Heydrick's
cheerful, trivial talk. He was so clumsy with Ludowika's cloak that she
took it from him, and, with a careless, feminine scorn in common with
Mrs. Heydrick, got into it without assistance. They stood for a while in
the cast house, watching a keeper rolling and preparing the pig bed for
the evening flow. They were pressed close together in a profound gloom
of damp warmth rising from the wet sand and furnace. An obscure figure
moved a heavy and faintly clanging pile of tamping bars. The sound of
rain on the roof grew louder, continuous. A poignant and then strangling
emotion clutched at Howat Penny's throat. Silently they turned from the
murky interior.

A grey rain was plastering the leaves on the soggy ground; puddles
accumulated in the scarred road; the smoke from the smithy hung low on
the roof. At the left a small, stone house had a half opened door.
Ludowika looked within. "For storing," Howat told her. Inside were piled
sledges and cinder hooks, bars and moulds, and bales of tanned hides.
Ludowika explored in the shadows. A sudden eddy of wind slammed to the
door through which they had entered. They drew together irresistibly,
and stood for a long while, crushed in each other's arms; then Ludowika
stepped back with her cloak sliding from her shoulders. She rested
against precarious steps leading aloft through a square opening in the