“Put up your hands!” said the smith, advancing in a threatening manner.

“No,” said I, “a bargain is a bargain,” and turning my back upon him, I fell to watching the man with the rake, who, not content with Job’s word, was busily pacing out the distance for himself.

“Put up your hands!” repeated Black George hoarsely.

“For the last time, no,” said I over my shoulder.  “Strike me if you will,” I went on, seeing him raise his fist, “I shall not defend myself, but I tell you this, Black George, the first blow you strike will brand you coward, and no honest man.”

“Coward, is it?” cried he, and, with the word, had seized me in a grip that crushed my flesh, and nigh swung me off my feet; “coward is it?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said I, “none but a coward would attack an unresisting man.”  So, for a full minute we stood thus, staring into each other’s eyes, and once again I saw the hairs of his golden beard curl up, and outwards.

What would have been the end I cannot say, but there came upon the stillness the sound of flying footsteps, the crowd was burst asunder, and a girl stood before us, a tall, handsome girl with raven hair, and great, flashing black eyes.

“Oh!—­you, Jarge, think shame on yourself—­think shame on yourself, Black Jarge.  Look!” she cried, pointing a finger at him, “look at the great, strong man—­as is a coward!”

I felt the smith’s grip relax, his arms dropped to his sides, while a deep, red glow crept up his cheeks till it was lost in the clustering curls of gleaming, yellow hair.

“Why, Prue—­” he began, in a strangely altered voice, and stopped.  The fire was gone from his eyes as they rested upon her, and he made a movement as though he would have reached out his hand to her, but checked himself.

“Why, Prue—­” he said again, but choked suddenly, and, turning away, strode back towards his forge without another word.  On he went, looking neither to right nor left, and I thought there was something infinitely woebegone and pitiful in the droop of his head.

Now as I looked from his forlorn figure to the beautiful, flushed face of the girl, I saw her eyes grow wonderfully soft and sweet, and brim over with tears.  And, when Black George had betaken himself back to his smithy, she also turned, and, crossing swiftly to the inn, vanished through its open doorway.

“She ’ve a fine sperrit, ‘ave that darter o’ yourn, Simon, a fine sperrit.  Oh! a fine sperrit as ever was!” chuckled the Ancient.

“Prue aren’t afeard o’ Black Jarge—­never was,” returned Simon; “she can manage un—­allus could; you’ll mind she could allus tame Black Jarge wi’ a look, Gaffer.”

“Ah! she ’m a gran’darter to be proud on, be Prue,” nodded the Ancient, “an’ proud I be to!”

“What,” said I, “is she your daughter, Simon?”

“Ay, for sure.”

“And your granddaughter, Ancient?”