know what the
boy's name is going to be?" he asked, and his face had the same
stubborn look that it had worn when he told the vegetable woman to
wait. It seemed as if his square forehead projected still more and even
his nose had a more obstinate and uncompromising look. "He is going to
have a queer name, the boy," he went on. He was uncommonly talkative,
though he spoke slowly and with difficulty: "A strange name. He is to
be called Cain."

As he said this, he came out from behind the wagon and approached
Hallheimer, looking at him with a grim laugh.

"What--what's that you say?" stammered the little man.

The smith nodded. "Yes, yes," he said.

"You can't mean that," said the other. He got into his wagon, took his
place on the seat and repeated: "You don't mean that, Fausch."

"He is going to be called Cain," said Stephen indifferently, without
raising his voice. But his manner seemed to say: "Move me if you can."

The trader looked for some money, to pay for the work, and handed it
down to the smith. "They'll refuse to name the child that," said he.

"They'll have to," answered Stephen. "Did you pick up anything among
the Italians this time?" he asked. And without ceremony he reached in
under the oilcloth cover that was spread over the trader's wagon.

Hallheimer leaned back from his seat into the wagon and took out a
little box without any cover from under the oilcloth. "I may as well
show you this," said he. In the box lay an object carefully wrapped in
cloth and cotton wool. Hallheimer unpacked it and handed it to the
smith. "A Roman bronze," said he, "I got it in Milan from an old junk
man."

Stephen took the little figure, a boy running a race, a work most
delicately and perfectly formed. He placed it upright on the palm of
his broad, fire-scorched hand. The sun had gone down behind the woods,
and only the afterglow still lay over the road, but on the smith's
heavy hand the tiny figure stood as if it were alive, in the infinitely
pure light.

The trader watched the smith raising and lowering his arm, as if the
better to appreciate the beauty of the work of art. Then Fausch began
to speak. His voice was quiet and almost deeper than usual, and yet one
seemed to hear his quickened breathing. "Only see--the position, the
head, the youthful brow, the chest, just look--Hallheimer--!"

"This one pleases you too, does it?" asked the trader. His glance
rested on the heavy, grimy man, who stood bending forwa