Valmond left the river-men to the tyranny of her tongue and stick, and came on to where the red light of the forge showed through the smithy window. As he neared the door, he heard a voice singularly sweet, and another of commoner calibre was joining in the refrain of a song: “‘Oh, traveller, see where the red sparks rise,’ (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) But dark is the mist in the traveller’s eyes. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) ‘Oh, traveller, see far down the gorge, The crimson light from my father’s forge. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) “‘Oh, traveller, hear how the anvils ring.’ (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) But the traveller heard, ah, never a thing. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) ‘Oh, traveller, loud do the bellows roar, And my father waits by the smithy door. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) “‘Oh, traveller, see you thy true love’s grace.’ (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) And now there is joy in the traveller’s face. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!) Oh, wild does he ride through the rain and mire, To greet his love by the smithy fire. (Fly away, my heart, fly away!)” In accompaniment, some one was beating softly on the anvil, and the bellows were blowing rhythmically. He lingered for a moment, loath to interrupt the song, and then softly opened the upper half of the door, for it was divided horizontally, and leaned over the lower part. Beside the bellows, her sleeves rolled up, her glowing face cowled in her black hair, comely and strong, stood Elise Malboir, pushing a rod of steel into the sputtering coals. Over the anvil, with a small bar caught in a pair of tongs, hovered Madelinette Lajeunesse, beating, almost tenderly, the red-hot point of the steel. The sound of the iron hammer on the malleable metal was like muffled silver, and the sparks flew out like jocund fireflies. She was making two hooks for her kitchen wall, for she was clever at the forge, and could shoe a horse if she were let to do so. She was but half-turned to Valmond, but he caught the pure outlines of her face and neck, her extreme delicacy of expression, which had a pathetic, subtle refinement, in acute contrast to the quick, abundant health, the warm energy, the half defiant look of Elise. It was a picture of labour and life. A dozen thoughts ran through Valmond’s mind. He was responsible, to an extent, for the happiness of these two young creatures. He had promised to make a songstress of the one, to send her to Paris; had roused in her wild, ambitious hopes of fame and fortune--dreams that, in any case, could be little like the real thing: fanciful visions of conquest and golden living, where never the breath of her hawthorn and wild violets entered; only sickly perfumes, as from an odalisque’s fan, amid the enervating splendour of voluptuous boudoirs--for she had read of these things.