Three broad bands of light shot from the fires, expanding in size, but weakening in intensity.  These lights, and the candles at the west end, revealed in a strange combination the middle ages, the nineteenth century, and eternal nature.

Nature first.  Snow gleaming on the windows.  Oh, it was cozy to see it gleam and sparkle, and to think “Aha! you all but killed me; now King Fire warms both thee and me.”  Snow-flakes, of enormous size, softly descending, and each appearing a diamond brooch, as it passed through the channels of fiery light.

The middle ages.  Massive old arches, chipped, and stained; a moldering altar-piece, dog’s-eared (Henry had nailed it up again all but the top corner, and in it still faintly gleamed the Virgin’s golden crown).  Pulpit, richly carved, but moldering:  gaunt walls, streaked and stained by time.  At the west end, one saint—­the last of many—­lit by two candles, and glowing ruby red across the intervening gulf of blackness:  on the nearest wall an inscription, that still told, in rusty letters, how Giles de la Beche had charged his lands with six merks a year forever, to buy bread and white watered herrings, the same to be brought into Cairnhope Church every Sunday in Lent, and given to two poor men and four women; and the same on Good Friday with a penny dole, and, on that day, the clerk to toll the bell at three of the clock after noon, and read the lamentation of a sinner, and receive one groat.

Ancient monuments, sculptures with here an arm gone, and here a head, that yet looked half-alive in the weird and partial light.

And between one of those mediaeval sculptures, and that moldering picture of the Virgin, stood a living horse, munching his corn; and in the foreground was a portable forge, a mausoleum turned into fires and hot plate, and a young man, type of his century, forging table-knives amidst the wrecks of another age.

When Grace had taken in the whole scene with wonder, her eye was absorbed by this one figure, a model of manly strength, and skill, and grace.  How lightly he stepped:  how easily his left arm blew the coals to a white heat, with blue flames rising from them.  How deftly he drew out the white steel.  With what tremendous force his first blows fell, and scattered hot steel around.  Yet all that force was regulated to a hair—­he beat, he molded, he never broke.  Then came the lighter blows; and not one left the steel as it found it.  In less than a minute the bar was a blade, it was work incredibly unlike his method in carving; yet, at a glance, Grace saw it was also perfection, but in an opposite style.  In carving, the hand of a countess; in forging, a blacksmith’s arm.

She gazed with secret wonder and admiration; and the comparison was to the disadvantage of Mr. Coventry; for he sat shivering, and the other seemed all power.  And women adore power.

When Little had forged the knives and forks, and two deep saucers, with magical celerity, he plunged them into water a minute, and they hissed; he sawed off the rim of a pew, and fitted handles.