s instead of three. The sunlight streamed
through a window high above the floor and fell upon the arched back of
the annealing oven, the window being so placed that the sun could never
shine upon the working end and dazzle the workmen.

When Giovanni and Zorzi entered, the men were working in silence. The
low and steady roar of the flames was varied by the occasional sharp
click of iron or the soft sound of hot glass rolling on the marver, or
by the hiss of a metal instrument plunged into water to cool it. Every
man had an apprentice to help him, and two boys tended the fire. The
foreman sat at a table, busy with an account, a small man, even paler
than the others and dressed in shabby brown hose and a loose brown coat.
The workmen wore only hose and shirts.

Without desisting from their occupations they cast surprised glances at
Giovanni and his companion, whom they all hated as a favoured person.
One of them was finishing a drinking-glass, rolling the pontil on the
arms of the working-stool; another, a beetle-browed fellow, swung his
long blow-pipe with its lump of glowing glass in a full circle, high in
air and almost to touch the ground; another was at a 'bocca' in the low
glare; all were busy, and the air was very hot and close. The men looked
grim and ill-tempered.

Giovanni explained the object of his coming in a way intended to
conciliate them to himself at Zorzi's expense. Their presence gave him
courage.

"This is Zorzi, the man without a name," he said, "who is come from
Dalmatia to give us a lesson in glass-blowing."

One of the men laughed, and the apprentices tittered. The others looked
as if they did not understand. Zorzi had known well enough what humour
he should find among them, but he would not let the taunt go unanswered.

"Sirs," he said, for they all claimed the nobility of the glass-blowers'
caste, "I come not to teach you, but to prove to the master's son that I
can make some trifle in the manner of your art."

No one spoke. The workmen in the elder Beroviero's house knew well
enough that Zorzi was a better artist than they, and they had no mind to
let him outdo them at their own furnace.

"Will any one of you gentlemen allow me to use his place?" asked Zorzi
civilly.

Not a man answered. In the sullen silence the busy hands moved with
quick skill, the furnace roared, the glowing glass grew in ever-changing
shapes.

"One of you must give Zorzi his place," said Giovanni, in a tone of