That narrow spot of ground, with the houses down in the valley, formed the world for four hundred people. The furnace-hands and their families saw nothing beyond the hills and rocks that hemmed in their village; knew nothing of the mad tumults outside. An untaught, sturdy race of men, they differed little one from another. Every day, when the sun rose, they went forth to toil, and every night, when the great furnace over the creek glimmered red, they lay down to sleep. But ignorance and superstition filled their hearts, and anger, and hate, and jealousy, were as rife among them as in the crowded cities. Another day passed, and the night which followed it was dark and cloudy. Near midnight, the great bell signalled for the last run of iron. Occasionally blue flames leaped up from the furnace, lurid as the fiery tongues of a volcano. The long and narrow roof brooded over the sand-bed like the black wings of some monster bird hovering in the air. Under its shadow groups of men were but wavering, dusky figures. Suddenly, as an electric flash, a dazzling yellow glare broke out, and a fierce, scorching, withering blast swept from an opening that seemed the mouth of hell itself. Slowly out of the burning cavern a hissing stream of molten iron came creeping down. It crawled, and turned and crawled, rib after rib, until it lay like some huge skeleton stretched upon the ground. A thin vapor floated up in the sulphurous air and quivered with reflected splendor. The scarlet-shirted men looked weird in the unearthly brightness. The yellow glow faded to red, that deepened to a blood-colored spot in the night. The bell rang to discharge the hands, and squads of men broke up, scattering in the dark. Monk went to his garret-room, hesitated a moment at the door, then passed in and shut it so violently that the floor shook. He struck a match. In the brimstone light a horrible demon countenance wavered, blue and ghastly; but, when the candle flamed, it grew into Monk’s face, covered by the black scowl of rage that had disfigured it once before—a rage that was freshly roused. “If I’d had my knife, I’d have done it just now, when I stumbled against him. But he dies to-morrow night at—” The words froze on his lips, and his black scowling face was suddenly overspread by a strange pallor. He stood motionless, as if chained to the floor, his eyes darted quickly about, and he seemed to suspend his very breath. A clear, distinct, ticking sound occurred at regular intervals for a minute, and left profound silence. Monk raised his head. “It’s a sign of coming death. That’s for Peters. There it is again!” The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several times. “D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there _will_ be a sudden death.”