She broke off, uttering a sharp exclamation as of terror or disgust, and shrunk back against the well rim. A figure had come into view--by way of the meadow path, up which Nicette had borne her load of fodder--and had paused over against the fountain, where it stood obsequiously bowing and gesticulating. It was that of a tall, large-boned man, fair-haired, apple-faced, with a mild, deprecating expression in its big blue eyes. Its head was crowned with a greasy cloth cap, shaped like the half of a tomato; its shirt, of undesirable fustian, was strangely decorated over the left breast with a yellow badge cut into something the shape of a duck’s foot; its full small-clothes--that came pretty high to the waist and were braced over the shoulders with leather bands, yoked to others running horizontally across chest and back--seemed in their every stereotyped crease the worn expression of humility. “What is it, my friend?” said Ned. Théroigne put a hand on his arm. “Do not speak to him, save to bid him return whither he came. God in heaven! I can see the grass withering under his feet! Monsieur, monsieur” (for Ned was walking towards the man), “it is one of the accursed race!” The creature fawned like a Celestial as the young man approached. “Monseigneur, for the love of God, a drink of water!” said he. His dry, thick lips seemed to grate on the words. “Why not?” said Ned. “You have only to help yourself.” “Let him dare!” shrieked Théroigne. “Monsieur, do you hear! it is a Cagot, a Cagot, I say!” The man looked up, with a despairing forlorn gesture, and drooped again like one to whom long experience had taught the hopelessness of self-vindication. “Is that so?” asked Ned. “Alas! monseigneur, it is so.” “What do you do it for, then; and what the deuce is it? Here--have you a cup or vessel of your own?” With a hurried manner, compound of supplication and triumph, the creature, fumbling in its shirt, brought forth an iron mug. Ned received and carried it to the well. Théroigne sprang from him. “You are not to be warned? It will poison the blessed spring.” “Nonsense,” said Ned; but recognising her real agitation and alarm, he offered her a compromise. He would carry the mug to a little distance, and there she, standing back from it, should drop in water from her pitcher. To this she consented, after some demur; and the Cagot had his drink. “That makes a man of you,” said Ned, watching the poor fellow take all down in reviving gulps. The other shrugged his shoulders despondingly. “Monseigneur, I can never be that. It is forbidden to us to stand apart from the beasts. We had hoped in these days of----” he broke off, shook his head, and only repeated, “I can never be that, monseigneur.” “Then I would not come among men to be so treated.” “Nor should I, but that my one pig had strayed and I dared to seek it. Monseigneur--if monseigneur would soil his tongue with the word--has he----”