“Insolent clod!” exclaimed Bellecour, with an angry laugh and a sharp, downward blow of the butt of his whip upon the peasant's head. Charlot's hand grew nerveless and released the bridle as he sank stunned to the ground. Bellecour touched his horse with the spur and rode over the prostrate fellow with no more concern than had he been a dog's carcase. “Blaise, see to the girl,” he called over his shoulder, adding to his company: “Come, messieurs, we have wasted time enough.” Not a hand was raised to stay him, not a word of protest uttered, as the nobles rode by, laughing, and chatting among themselves, with the utmost unconcern of the tragedy that was being enacted. Like a flock of frightened sheep the peasants stood huddled together and watched them go. In the same inaction--for all that not a little grief was blent with the terror on their countenances--they stood by and allowed Blaise to lift the half-swooning girl to the withers of his horse. No reply had they to the coarse jest with which he and his fellow-servant rode off. But La Boulaye, who, from the point where he and Duhamel had halted, had observed the whole scene from its inception, turned now a livid face upon his companion. “Shall such things be?” he cried passionately. “Merciful God! Are we men, Duhamel, and do we permit such things to take place?” The old pedagogue shrugged his shoulders in despair. His face was heavily scored by sorrow. “Helas!” he sighed. “Are they not masters of all that they may take? The Marquis goes no further than is by ancient law allowed his class. It is the law needs altering, my friend, and then the men will alter. Meanwhile, behold them--lords of life and death.” “Lords of hell are they!” blazed the young revolutionist. “That is where they belong, whence they are come, and whither they shall return. Poltroons!” he cried, shaking his fist at the group of cowed peasants that surrounded the prostrate Charlot “Sheep! Worthless clods! The nobles do well to despise you, for, by my faith, you invite nothing but contempt, you that will suffer rape and murder to be done under your eyes, and never do more than look scared encouragement upon your ravishers!” “Blame not these poor wretches, Caron,” sighed the old man. “They dare not raise a hand.” “Then, pardieu! here, at least, is one who does dare,” he cried furiously, as from the breast pocket of his coat he drew a pistol. Blaise, with the girl across the withers of his horse, was approaching them, followed by Jean. “What would you do?” cried the old man fearfully, setting a restraining hand upon La Boulaye's sleeve. But Caron shook himself free. “This,” was all he answered, and simultaneously, he levelled his pistol and fired at Blaise.