Far along the broad moonlit vista between the mountain and the cliffs of the gorge, he saw the little forge, with the looming heights above; and could it be that here and there lines of red light gleamed through its ill-chinked walls? And did he hear, or did he fancy, vibrating in the midnight, the clink-clank of the hammer and the sledge, the sound he knew so well? For one instant the strongest feeling within him was the instinct of an outraged proprietor. And in that instant he reached out of the window, seized the shining beech boughs so close at hand, and swung down to the ground, having paused only to slip into his long boot-leg a “shootin’ iron” for the intimidation of the unknown trespasser. He was on his feet and in the road before he remembered that other self, his strange, white-faced double, that lurked about the forge and opened the shutter to look in upon its hilarious image. Not the first time had It kindled the fires and wielded the hammer, he recollected with a chilly thrill. Had not the chance wayfarer noted the uncanny sounds of forging in the night, while he, the smith, was lying far away in a deep sleep? He was advancing mechanically along the road. Suddenly he paused. He could not face It; he would not encounter Its gaze. What a frightful thing to stand and meet It! He fell to trembling, and with his sleeve wiped the cold drops from his brow. How dark the mountains gloomed! With what a sense of silence was the moon endowed! Pacing the woods in stately guise, like some fair maiden, lily-crowned,—who hath heard her step? He still stood looking forward uncertainly, his courage faltering, his intention vacillating. All at once he lifted his head to the sound of the forge, the clinking and the clanking of the hammer and the sledge. Regular, sonorous, unceasing, it was. “_He_ oughter understand the biz’ness,” he thought. And he rolled up his sleeve, and wondered if the pallid resemblance wielded an arm like that.