To the soldier’s passing dejection had succeeded a resolution full of calm and collected energy.
“Agricola, what o’clock is it?” asked he of his son.
“Just struck nine, father.”
“You must make me, directly, an iron hook—strong enough to support my weight, and wide enough to hold on the coping of a wall. This stove will be forge and anvil; you will find a hammer in the house; and, for iron,” said the soldier, hesitating, and looking around him, “as for iron—here is some!”
So saying, the soldier took from the hearth a strong pair of tongs, and presented them to his son, adding: “Come, my boy! blow up the fire, blow it to a white heat, and forge me this iron!”
On these words, Frances and Agricola looked at each other with surprise; the smith remained mute and confounded, not knowing the resolution of his father, and the preparations he had already commenced with the needlewoman’s aid.
“Don’t you hear me, Agricola,” repeated Dagobert, still holding the pair of tongs in his hand; “you must make me a hook directly.”
“A hook, father?—for what purpose?”
“To tie to the end of a cord that I have here. There must be a loop at one end large enough to fix it securely.”
“But this cord—this hook—for what purpose are they?”