g.

In Waltheim, the village to which the smithy belonged, a bit of news
had been traveling about for some time: Ludwig Fausch was gone, and had
been sent away by his brother, the smith, on account of Maria, his
wife. She was going to have a baby! Finally--Ludwig--

More they would not say. The love of gossip is so mean. They only
hinted, and never spoke out plainly.

All the life of the great country road passed by the smithy, a road
that came from far away, and went on and on, to vanish in the far, far
distance. Heavy teams came by on working days, as well as the lighter
traveling carriages of country doctors or commercial travelers and the
rumbling carts of the peasants. They knew of the smithy on their way,
and used to give Stephen Fausch work. His best customers were the
cattle and horse dealers, who used to travel to North Germany, and also
southward toward Italy. They called the smithy their halfway house and
always had Fausch attend to their wagons and their animals. Moreover,
they had a certain weakness for the stubborn fellow, or perhaps this
weakness was only fear of him, since he had gradually come to be a sort
of master over the stretch of road on which he dwelt. Among the
traders, little Moritz Hallheimer was the one who came from the
greatest distance. He was a wiry, thin old man, neat and active, with
gray beard and hair, bad teeth, and weak eyes hidden behind dark
glasses. He was shrewd and talkative and knew a great many people, and
because he thought Stephen one of the most unusual men among his
acquaintance, he always stopped a while at the smithy and watched him
with wonder, but could never understand him.

One evening in early summer, Moritz Hallheimer arrived from Waltheim.
He was sitting in his small open wagon, driving his brown trotting
horse without any whip. On both sides and at the back of the wagon were
tied six horses that he had for sale. Their hoofs and legs were white
with dust, for they had made a long journey. The trader came onward
from the woods toward the smithy through the golden light of the
setting sun. So bright was this golden haze between him and the
blacksmith shop, that the horses and wagon could not be seen, and
Stephen, the smith, who was hammering at a wagon in front of his
workshop, suddenly saw him appear with his trotting horses as if coming
out of a fire. Fausch shaded his eyes with his swarthy arm, then he
bent once more over his work and let the trader come up