The mighty blows of Golden-Mug found echoes in her heart; they rang within her, a crystal-clear music in time with the throbbing of her pulse.

She had the feeling that this hammering was driving something deep inside of her, something solid, something hard as the iron of the bolt.
She had no doubt Goujet would win.

Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst, was much too ugly in his dirty tunic, jumping around like a monkey that had escaped from a zoo.

She waited, blushing red, happy that the heat could explain the blush.
Goujet was still counting.
"And twenty-eight!" cried he at length, laying the hammer on the ground.
"It's finished; you can look." The head of the bolt was clean, polished, and without a flaw, regular goldsmith's work, with the roundness of a marble cast in a mold.

The other men looked at it and nodded their heads; there was no denying it was lovely enough to be worshipped.