Liege is a city of the Middle Ages. Time was when the place boasted but a single forge; and though bucklers were heaped beside the anvil, and swords and spears lay waiting for repair, the blacksmith leant against his door-post, gazing idly up the hill-side. Gradually he was aware of a figure, which seemed to have grown into shape from a furze-bush, or to have risen from behind a stone; and as it descended the slope he eyed curiously the grimy face, long beard, and squat form of what he was half unwilling to recognize as a human being. Hobbling awkwardly, and shrugging his shoulders as though cold, the man came in time to the smithy door. "What! Jacques Perron--idle when work is to be done? Idle smith! idle smith! The horse lacks the bit, and the rider the spur. 'Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending; Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending.' Idle smith! idle smith!" "Idle enough," quoth Jacques. "I'm as idle as you are ugly; but I can't get charcoal any more than you can get beauty, so I must stand still, and you be content with your face, though I'd fain earn a loaf and a cup full enough for both of us this winter morning." Though the strange man must have known he was horribly ugly--that is, if he ever bent to drink of the clear bright waters of the lovely Meuse, which reflected in those days every lily-bell and every grass-blade which grew upon its banks, and gave a faithful portraiture in its cool waters of every creature that leant over them--though he was certainly the most frightful creature that had ever met the blacksmith's sight, it was evident enough that he did not like being called Ugly-face. But when the honest, good-natured smith spoke of earning a draught for his new acquaintance as well as himself, he smacked his ugly lips and twisted out a sort of smile which made him still more hideous. "Ah, ah!" said he, "wine's good in winter weather, wine's good in winter weather. Listen, listen! Jacques Perron! listen, listen! Go you up the hill-side--yonder, yonder!" and he pointed with a yellow finger, which seemed to stretch out longer and longer as the smith strained his eyes up the slope, until the digit looked quite as long as the tallest chimney that smoked over Liege. "Listen, listen!" and he sang in a voice like the breath of a huge bellows: "'Wine's good in winter weather; Up the hill-side near the heather Go and gather the black earth, It shall give your fire birth. Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending; Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending: Go! Go!'