He terminated the interview abruptly, making no sign of conclusion or farewell, moving with his long, deliberate, supple stride toward the door and out along the moonlit road. Clem Sanders lingered. He felt that he would like to close his doors behind the audacity that, unlearned in the art, essayed to work at his forge, and to protect the little tongs and swage and hammer—for each of which, in the moment of its danger, he felt an almost paternal solicitude—from all non-professional intermeddling. He was placing them in their wonted order, according to his habit, when he suddenly noticed that the stranger had not moved. Rathburn was still standing, gazing steadfastly after Jepson, his whole attitude informed with resentment and agitation and the thirst for revenge, and his face bespeaking the passion and turmoil of his heart. He turned with a quick gesture, as he became conscious that the blacksmith’s eyes were upon him. “What’s that man’s name?” he demanded. Clem Sanders was aware that in some sort he had produced a less forceful impression than his ally; that his recent anger and taunts were easily overlooked, and his problematic opinions were held as of scant consequence. A trifle of surliness was engendered by the perception that he was thus ignored, and he mumbled rather than pronounced his coadjutor’s name. “Well, what’s the reason he takes so much on himself, damn him!” cried Rathburn recklessly. “Sorter robustious,” explained Jepson’s facile associate. “_Sorter robustious!_ Good Lord! Sets me free, and conditions me, as if—Don’t anybody make any head against him?” “’Tain’t wuth while ter try. Folks sorter like Teck, an’ sorter don’t. But they foller arter him. An’,” with a recurrent desire to do justice, “thar’s one thing ez goes a long way with most folks: he’s mighty religious.” “Religious! Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Rathburn in a fervor of amazement. Clem began to enjoy the _rôle_ of biographer, since so fevered an interest hung on his words. “A plumb survigrous saint, he is. He hev got a mighty fine voice fur quirin’. When he sings, it sounds some like the mountings hed bruk out a-psalmin’.” “How many men did he have at your barn to-night?” Clem Sanders gave him a long stare. “Ye wanter know too much. Ef I war a smart man, I’d stop hyar an’ forge me an’ you-uns a chain ter tie up these hyar tongues o’ ourn. I hev done talked too much a’ready. Ef I hedn’t, ye’d be a-danglin’ powerful limp ter one o’ them trees,”—nodding his head toward the great bare limbs,—“stone dead, an’ the buzzards would be hevin’ a high time ’mongst yer bones by ter-morrer.” It was not a pleasant picture under the blacksmith’s crude touch, but its power was heightened by a sense of its absolute veracity, and the very close propinquity it had to being an event instead of a possibility. Rathburn shuddered a little.