Théroigne put a hand on his arm.
“Do not speak to him, save to bid him return whither he came. God in heaven! I can see the grass withering under his feet! Monsieur, monsieur” (for Ned was walking towards the man), “it is one of the accursed race!”
The creature fawned like a Celestial as the young man approached.
“Monseigneur, for the love of God, a drink of water!” said he.
His dry, thick lips seemed to grate on the words.
“Why not?” said Ned. “You have only to help yourself.”
“Let him dare!” shrieked Théroigne. “Monsieur, do you hear! it is a Cagot, a Cagot, I say!”
The man looked up, with a despairing forlorn gesture, and drooped again like one to whom long experience had taught the hopelessness of self-vindication.
“Is that so?” asked Ned.
“Alas! monseigneur, it is so.”