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!’

“Mind my cup of wine—­mind my cup of wine!” As he ended this rude chant Jacques saw the long finger run back into the shrivelled hand, as a telescope slips back into its case, and then the hand was wrapped up in the dingy garment, and with a dreadful shiver, and a chattering of teeth as loud as the noise of the anvils now heard on the same spot, the ugly man was wafted away round the corner of the building like a thick gust of smoke from a newly fed furnace.

“Mind my cup of wine—­mind my cup of wine!” rang again in the ears of the startled Jacques, and after running several times round his house in vain pursuit of the voice, he sat down on the cold anvil to scratch his head and think.  It was quite certain he had work to do, and it was as certain as half a score searches could make it that he had not a single coin in his pouch to buy charcoal to do it with.  He was reflecting that the old man was a very strange creature—­he was more than half afraid to think who he might be—­when in the midst of his cogitation he heard his three children calling out for their morning meal.  Not a loaf had Jacques in store, and twisting his hide apron round his loins, he muttered, “Demon or no demon, I’ll go,” and strode out of the smithy and up the hill-side as fast as though he feared that if he went slowly his courage would not carry him as far up as the heather-bush which the long yellow finger had pointed out.