“You understand this job better than I do,” said I.
“I understand it,” said he.
“I’ll take a short spell,” said I, “and look about the shop a little.”
“Don’t be setting my tools by the ears.”
“No; I want to see those pictures by the chimney.”
He said nothing. His lathe buzzed. His chisel tortured bars of metal until they shrieked. The fragrance of fresh-cut steel filled the shop.
I sprang to the dusky corner. My heart choked me. I wanted to shout so that John Brent, miles away across the wilderness of the great city, could hear and come with one step.
For here was what I hoped.
Here we were, our very selves, in this bold, masterly drawing. John Brent himself, the wounded knight; myself, bringing him water from the fountain; our dear Ellen, kneeling beside; and bending over us, Don Fulano, the chiefest hero of that terrible ride through the cañon.
And more, if I needed proof. For here, in among the water-plants by the spring, there in the grass under Wordsworth’s oak, lurked the initials, E. C.