The king passed me in the night as the fuller’s hammer kept a steady beat, like a heart or the ticking of a clock. He’s out there now, making ready the campaign. Horses shoed and swords sharpened; the bellows blaze and the hammer, that lovely hammer, is singing its song.
The king, something of him, I think remains. Though why, by heaven or hell, he has gone, I do not pretend to know. I know the task he set; whatever else you’re doing or will do, don’t stop the hammer. It is too lovely a thing, sending sparks like stars.
Tale Told 