What they felt was quite different.
It was the deep, fierce hatred of the mediaeval guildsman for the
stranger who had stolen knowledge without apprenticeship and without
citizenship, and it was made more intense because the glass-blowers were
the only guild that excluded every foreign-born man, without any
exception. It was a shame to them to be outdone by one who had not
their blood, nor their teaching, nor their high acknowledged rights.
They were peaceable men in their way, not given to quarrelling, nor
vicious; yet, excepting the mild old foreman, there was not one of them
who would not gladly have brought his iron blow-pipe down on Zorzi's
head with a two-handed swing, to strike the life out of the intruder.
Zorzi's deft hands made the large piece he was forming spin on itself
and take new shape at every turn, until it had the perfect curve of
those slim-necked Eastern vessels for pouring water upon the hands,
which have not even now quite degenerated from their early grace of
form. While it was still very hot, he took a sharp pointed knife from
his belt and with a turn of his hand cut a small round hole, low down on
one side. The mouth was widened and then turned in and out like the leaf
of a carnation. He left the cooling piece on the pontil, lying across
the arms of the stool, and took his blow-pipe again.
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