"Ah, that's the joke!" answered the drunkard. "'Tis to arrest two rascals, who want to bring here sixty thousand Spanish soldiers in paper in their pocket. You don't, perhaps, quite understand me, 'croquant'. Well, 'tis as I tell thee—in their own pockets."
"Ay, ay! I understand," said Jacques, loosening his poniard in his sash, and looking at the door.
"Very well, devil's-skin, let's sing the Tirana. Take the bottle, throw away the cigar, and sing."
With these words the drunken host began to sing in Spanish, interrupting his song with bumpers, which he threw down his throat, leaning back for the greater ease, while Jacques, still seated, looked at him gloomily by the light of the brazier, and meditated what he should do.
A flash of lightning entered the small window, and filled the room with a sulphurous odor. A fearful clap immediately followed; the cabin shook; and a beam fell outside.
"Hallo, the house!" cried the drunken man; "the Devil's among us; and our friends are not come!"
"Sing!" said Jacques, drawing the pack upon which he was close to that of Houmain.
The latter drank to encourage himself, and then continued to sing.
As he ended, he felt his seat totter, and fell backward; Jacques, thus freed from him, sprang toward the door, when it opened, and his head struck against the cold, pale face of the mad-woman. He recoiled.
"The judge!" she said, as she entered; and she fell prostrate on the cold ground.