"Se campant au haut des vignes Le duc d'Albe et sa compagnie, À Saint-Arnou, près nos fossés, C'était pour faire l'entreprise De reconnaître nos fossés--"[6] "Ho, there! Will you hold your noise and stop, wretched peasant, with your cursed song?" shouted the same harsh voice. Martin-Guerre reflected that these importunate fellows who hailed him were ten against one; that, thanks to their horses, they could overtake him with ease, and that he might do an immense amount of harm by running away. So he stopped short. After all, he was not altogether disappointed at having an opportunity to display his self-possession and his cleverness. His master, who seemed sometimes to doubt the existence of those qualities in him, would have no excuse for it henceforth, if he should succeed in extricating himself with address from such a perilous position. At first he assumed an air of most perfect self-confidence. "By Saint Quentin the martyr!" he muttered, approaching his captors, "this is a fine business for you, keeping a poor belated peasant away from his wife and little ones at Angimont. Come, tell me, pray, what you want of me." He meant to say this in Picardy patois; but he really said it in the dialect of Auvergne with the accent of a Provençal. The man who had hailed him had a similar intention of replying in French, but the best he could do was Walloon with a German accent. "What do we want of you? To question you and search you, night-prowler; for how do we know that there isn't a spy hidden under your peasant's smock?" "Go on, then; question me and search me," was Martin-Guerre's response, accompanied with a hoarse and most unnatural laugh. "We will take you to camp with us." "To camp!" exclaimed Martin. "Oh, well, that's all right. I will speak to the general. Ah, you choose to arrest an unfortunate peasant on his way back from carrying supplies to your comrades down yonder at St. Quentin! May I be damned if I ever do it again! I will let your whole army die of hunger first. I was going to Angimont after more supplies; but you stop me on the way. Ah, you don't know me yet. I'll be even with you for this! 'Saint Quentin, tête de kien,' says the Picardy proverb. Take me for a spy indeed! I propose to complain to your chief. Let us go to your camp!" "_Mordieu_! What gibberish!" retorted the commander of the scouting party. "I am the chief, my friend; and it is with me that you will have to reckon when we can see you plainly, if you please. Do you suppose we are going to rouse the generals for a blackguard like you?"