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“Marble,” he muttered. “It’s so hard to get. Labuerre was so old.”

The young lovers exchanged a glance and he slept again. He was half awake when the musician seized first one of his hands and then the other, jabbing them with stubby fingers and bending his lion’s head close to peer at the horny callouses left by chisel and mallet.

“Ja, ja,” the musician kept saying.

Hell goes on forever, so for an eternity he jolted and jarred, and for an eternity he heard bickering voices: “Why he was so foolish, then?” “A idiot he could be.” “Hush, let him rest.” “The children told the story.” “There only one Labuerre was.” “Easy with the tubing.” “Let him rest.”

Daylight dazzled his eyes.

“Why you were so foolish?” demanded a harsh voice. “The sister says I can talk to you now, so that is what I first want to know.”

He looked at the face of—not the musician; that had been delirium. But it was a tough old face.

“Ja, I am mean-looking; that is settled. What did you think you were doing without coveralls and way over your exposure time?”