“What do you do it for, then; and what the deuce is it? Here—have you a cup or vessel of your own?”
With a hurried manner, compound of supplication and triumph, the creature, fumbling in its shirt, brought forth an iron mug. Ned received and carried it to the well. Théroigne sprang from him.
“You are not to be warned? It will poison the blessed spring.”
“Nonsense,” said Ned; but recognising her real agitation and alarm, he offered her a compromise. He would carry the mug to a little distance, and there she, standing back from it, should drop in water from her pitcher. To this she consented, after some demur; and the Cagot had his drink.
“That makes a man of you,” said Ned, watching the poor fellow take all down in reviving gulps.
The other shrugged his shoulders despondingly.
“Monseigneur, I can never be that. It is forbidden to us to stand apart from the beasts. We had hoped in these days of——” he broke off, shook his head, and only repeated, “I can never be that, monseigneur.”
“Then I would not come among men to be so treated.”
“Nor should I, but that my one pig had strayed and I dared to seek it. Monseigneur—if monseigneur would soil his tongue with the word—has he——”
“I have seen no pig. No doubt it will be returned to you, if found.”