“No, thank you,” repeated the other. “Oh, mother, sister,” queried Roland, addressing the two women, “in Heaven’s name, do you understand anything of what these two fools are saying?” “Fools,” repeated the first peasant; “well, possibly. But it’s not the less true that Pierre Marey had his neck twisted just for looking over the wall. True, it was of a Saturday--the devil’s sabbath.” “And they couldn’t straighten it out,” affirmed the second peasant, “so they had to bury him with his face turned round looking the other way. “Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “this is growing interesting. I’m very fond of ghost stories.” “That’s more than sister Amélie is it seems,” cried Edouard. “What do you mean?” “Just see how pale she’s grown, brother Roland.” “Yes, indeed,” said Sir John; “mademoiselle looks as if she were going to faint.” “I? Not at all,” exclaimed Amélie, wiping the perspiration from her forehead; “only don’t you think it seems a little warm here, mother?” “No,” answered Madame de Montrevel. “Still,” insisted Amélie, “if it would not annoy you, I should like to open the window.” “Do so, my child.” Amélie rose hastily to profit by this permission, and went with tottering steps to a window opening upon the garden. After it was opened, she stood leaning against the sill, half-hidden by the curtains. “Ah!” she said, “I can breathe here.” Sir John rose to offer her his smelling-salts, but Amélie declined hastily: “No, no, my lord. Thank you, but I am better now.” “Come, come,” said Roland, “don’t bother about that; it’s our boar.” “Well, Monsieur Louis, we will fetch your boar tomorrow.” “That’s it,” said the second peasant, “to-morrow morning, when it’s light.” “But to go there at night--” “Oh! to go there at night--” The peasant looked at his comrade and both shook their heads. “It can’t be done at night.” “Cowards.” “Monsieur Louis, a man’s not a coward because he’s afraid.” “No, indeed; that’s not being a coward,” replied the other. “Ah!” said Roland, “I wish some stronger minded men than you would face me with that argument; that a man is not a coward because he’s afraid!” “Well, it’s according to what he’s afraid of, Monsieur Louis. Give me a good sickle and a good cudgel, and I’m not afraid of a wolf; give me a good gun and I’m not afraid of any man, even if I knew he’s waiting to murder me.” “Yes,” said Edouard, “but you’re afraid of a ghost, even when it’s only the ghost of a monk.” “Little Master Edouard,” said the peasant, “leave your brother to do the talking; you’re not old enough to jest about such things--” “No,” added the other peasant, “wait till your beard is grown, my little gentleman.” “I haven’t any beard,” retorted Edouard, starting up, “but just the same if I was strong enough to carry the boar, I’d go fetch it myself either by day or night.” “Much good may it do you, my young gentleman. But neither my comrade nor myself would go, even for a whole louis.”