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Updated: May 20, 2025
The two were talking with great animation. The Ironworker seemed to be giving advice, and the sick boy was listening with affirmative gestures. "And what of that?" Febrer asked. The Little Chaplain seemed to pity the señor's simplicity. "Be careful, Don Jaime. You don't know the men of the island. This conversation at the forge means something. This is Saturday, courting night.
It was the Little Chaplain, who whispered mysteriously into his ear, at the same time pointing with a finger: "There's Pere the Ironworker, the famous vèrro." He designated a youth of less than medium stature, but arrogant and ostentatious in his appearance. The young men were grouped around the hero.
The Ironworker had already been buried. The bully lay rotting in the earth. What a true shot Don Jaime was! What a hand he had! He had broken the braggart's head. The boy recalled what had taken place afterward with the pride of one who has enjoyed the honor of witnessing an historic event.
Perhaps she was destined for the Ironworker, that odious vèrro, who seemed to patronize them all with his gloomy eyes!
The word "Tomal," opposed to Somal, is indigenous. "Handad "is palpably a corruption of the Arabic "Haddad," ironworker. The Midgan, "one-hand," corresponds with the Khadim of Yemen: he is called Kami or "archer" by the Arabs.
It was not the Ironworker who was the bully; it was himself, the señor of the tower, the descendant of so many illustrious dons, he, so proud of his origin. Shame intimidated him, overcoming him with stupid confusion. He did not know how to get away, nor which way to escape.
The Ironworker, wishing to outshine the others, was twanging a guitar, singing in low tones, accompanied by the rolling of the thunder. The Minstrel, sitting in a corner, was meditating new verses. Some boys hailed with mocking words the lightning flashes, which filtered through the cracks of the door, and the Little Chaplain smiled, sitting on the floor, his chin in his hands.
After the visit of the magistrate some pious neighbors had borne the body of the Ironworker to the cemetery of San José, and the powerful representatives of the law had come down to the farmhouse to quiz the wounded man. It was impossible to make him speak. He was sound asleep, and when they aroused him he looked at them with a vague stare, and immediately closed his eyes again.
Some of the girls had sat down, in other cases the dancer had been substituted several times, but the vèrro continued his violent dance, ever gloomy and disdainful, as if insensible to weariness. Jaime himself recognized with a dash of envy the terrible vigor of the Ironworker. What an animal!
Febrer nodded his head. Yes, he recognized the weapon; it was the one he had brought from Iviza. "Well, with this," continued the boy, "not a brave will dare to face us. The Ironworker? He is a fraud! The Minstrel and all the rest? Frauds also. I'm only waiting for a chance to use this! Anybody who attempts anything against you is sentenced to death."
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