Just below the beech-tree they were overtaken by a wave of mist which had rolled up one side of the mountain and was rapidly pouring down the other; a cold, thick mist, a mist "as bad as they make them," so V. said. They could not see five steps ahead, and thus it happened that near the beech-tree Pedraglio ran almost into the arms of a customs-guard.
He was one of the four, and had been told off to guard the open space between the brow of the hill and the forest. Catching sight of the little man in the top-hat, he exclaimed: "On the Boglia, Sig——" The lawyer quickly cast aside his gerla, and the guard did not finish his sentence, but stared a moment, open-mouthed, and then exclaimed: "How is this?"
The lawyer did not wait for further explanations.
"This is how it is," said he calmly, and drawing his fists into position on his breast, he hit out suddenly, and dealt the guard a tremendous blow in the stomach that sent him rolling on the grass, his heels in the air. In a flash Pedraglio was upon him, and snatched his carbine from him.
"If you yell, you dog, I shall do for you!" said he. But how could he possibly yell? With a blow like that in the stomach, it was all he could do to breathe for at least fifteen minutes. In fact the man lay like one dead, and it was some time before they could even make him groan faintly: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!"
"It's nothing, nothing at all," V. told him with his usual, mocking calm. "Shocks like that are good for the health. You will see. Now, my friend, you are just going to pick yourself up and stand nice and firm on your legs, and accompany us to Colmaregia. You will see how well you will be able to walk. I was careful not to use this." And he showed him the key.
"Oh, what a blow!" groaned the guard. "Oh, what a terrible blow!"
"It is indeed a rather stiff climb," the lawyer went on, taking the carbine from Pedraglio, "but with your permission we will help you up from behind with the point of this instrument. Thus climbing will become a delight. Then you must bear us company down to Brè. We will carry your carbine for you, but you, in return, must carry this little gerla. Is my meaning quite clear to you? Now, march!"
But the wretched man could not get to his feet and they certainly could not leave him there and run the risk of his calling out for help.
"Poor fellow!" said Pedraglio. "You hit him too hard."