The storm of leaden hail ceased: no man dared fire again, and yet something must be done, for the monsters were devouring their unhappy fellow-servant. Listening only to the dictates of courage and humanity, the noble-hearted farmer, gun in hand, leaped at once into the yard, and his men all followed his heroic example. A general and frightful conflict ensued. The scene which then took place defies every attempt at description. No pen could adequately place before the reader the awful incidents that succeeded. He must, if he can, imagine the howling of the wolves, the piteous cries of the lacerated and dying youth, the imprecations of the men, the neighing of the horses and roaring of the bulls in the stables; and, more than all, the crying and lamentations of the women and children in the house--a fearful chorus--such as happily few, very few persons were ever doomed to hear. At last the farmer's wife, a powerful and resolute woman, with great presence of mind unmuzzled the dogs, and threw them from a window into the yard. This most useful reinforcement with their vigorous attacks and loud barking completed the tumult and the tragedy. In twenty minutes the eight wolves were dead, and with them half the faithful dogs. The poor unfortunate lad, his throat torn open, was dead; his courageous, though unsuccessful defenders, were all more or less wounded, and the gallant farmer's left hand so injured, that as soon as surgical assistance could be procured for him, amputation was found to be necessary. The monsters, stretched side by side in the yard, were also stone dead, every one of them; but not a voice on the farm raised the heart-stirring shout of victory. Consternation and gloom reigned over it, and it was long indeed ere the voice of mourning deserted its walls. The skin of the wolf is strong and durable; the woodmen, _braconniers_, and mountaineers, make cloaks and caps of it, the tail being left on the latter to fall over the ear by way of ornament; they likewise cover with it the outside of their game-bags. They tan it also, and excellent shoes are made of the leather, soft and light for summer wear,--it is likewise made into parchment, not to write the history of their ancestors upon, but to cover small drums, the rattle of which, on fairdays and _fêtes_ is sure to set the peasants dancing. This fact is alluded to in a song of our province, written by a shepherd-poet, in the pleasing dialect of Le Morvan, of which the following is a free translation: Hark! 'tis the wolf-skin drum, We come! We come! Yes, come with me sweet girl, and fair As rosebud wild that scents the air. The heavens are bright, the stars are shining, Thy lovely form my arms entwining; Together let us lead the dance Deep in thy sylvan haunts, dear France! Hark! I hear those sounds again, The wolf-skin drum, the pipers' strain.