Ludowika and Howat aimlessly followed the turning road that
mounted to the coal house. A levelled and beaten path, built up with
stone, led out to the top of the stack, where a group of sooty figures
were gathered about the clear, almost smokeless flame of the blast.
Below they lingered on the grassy edge of the stream banked against the
hillside and flooding smoothly to the clamorous fall and revolving wheel
by the wood shed that covered the bellows. Pointed downward the latter
spasmodically discharged a rush of air with a vast creasing of their
dusty leather. A procession of men were wheeling and dumping slag into a
dreary area beyond. There was a stir of constant life about the Furnace,
voices calling, the ringing of metal on metal, the creak of barrows,
dogs barking. The plaintive melody of a German song rose on the air.
Behind a blood red screen of sumach Howat again kissed Ludowika. Her
arms tightened about his neck; she raised her face to him with an
abandon that blinded him to the world about, and his entire being was
drawn in an agony of desire to his lips. She sank limply into his rigid
embrace, a warm sensuous burden with parted lips.
At the Heydricks he ate senselessly whatever was placed before him. The
house, solidly built of grey stone traced with iron, had two rooms on
the lower floor.
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