"Wicked little spy!" cried Calabash, furiously. "Because he is as cowardly as a cow, he will get us guillotined, as father was." "Since you call me a spy," cried Francois, exasperated, "I shall tell everything to Martial. I have not told him yet, for I have not seen him since; but when he returns to-night, I--" The child dared not finish, for his mother advanced toward him, calm but inexorable. Although she habitually held herself much bent over, her size was very large for a woman. Holding the switch in one hand, with the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of the alarm, resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, dragging him after her, she compelled him to mount the stairs. In a moment was heard the sound of heavy blows, mingled with cries and sobs. When this noise ceased, a door was shut violently, and the widow descended. She placed the whip in its place, seated herself alongside of the fire, and resumed her work without saying a word. CHAPTER XXII. THE PIRATES. After a few moments' silence, the widow said to her daughter, "Go and get some wood; we will arrange the woodhouse to-night, on the return of Nicholas and Martial." "Martial! Will you also tell him that?" "Some wood," repeated the widow, interrupting her daughter. She, accustomed to this iron will, lighted a lantern and went out. At the moment she opened the door it could be seen that the night was very dark, and one could hear the whistling of the wind through the poplars, the clanging of the chains which held the boats, and the wash of the river. These noises were profoundly sad. During the preceding scene, Amandine, painfully affected at the fate of Francois, whom she loved tenderly, had dared neither to raise her eyes nor wipe her tears, which fell drop by drop obscuring her sight. In her haste to finish the work which was given her, she had wounded her hand with the scissors; the blood flowed freely, but the poor child thought less of the pain than the punishment which she might expect for having stained the linen with her blood. Happily, the widow, absorbed in profound thought, perceived nothing. Calabash returned bringing a basket filled with wood. At a look from her mother, she answered by a nod, intended to say that the dead man's foot did appear above the earth. The widow bit her lip and continued to work, but she appeared to handle the needle more quickly. Calabash replenished the fire, and resumed her seat alongside of her mother. "Nicholas does not come," said she. "I hope the old woman who was here this morning, in giving him a rendezvous with Bradamanti, has not got him into some bad scrape. She had such a queer air; she would not explain or tell her name, or where she came from." The widow shrugged her shoulders.