“From the south and from the west. It is not often we see them here; but this new spirit that is in the air—mon Dieu!—it stirs in them, I suppose, with a hope of better times—of release from the restrictions imposed upon them for the safety of the community; and now they will sometimes wander far afield.”
“And what are these restrictions?”
“They are many—as to the isolation of their camps; as to their tenure of land or carrying of weapons; as to buying or selling food; as to their right to enter a church by the common door, to take the middle of the street, to touch a passer-by, to remain in any village of the pure after sundown. They must grow their own flesh, find their own springs, wear, each man, woman, and child the duck-foot badge, that they may be known and shunned. Indeed, I cannot tell a tithe of the laws that control them.”
“But for what reason are they set apart?”
“Little mother of God! how can I say? They are Cagots, they are accursed—that is all I know.”
Even as she spoke an angry brabble of voices came to them from the direction of the path by which the outcast had retreated; and in a moment the man himself reappeared, scuttling along in a stooping posture, and hauling by the ear his recovered pig, that squeaked passionately as it was urged forward. But now in his wake came a posse of louts—young chawbacons drawn from the fields—who pelted the poor wretch with clods of clay, and were for baiting him, it seemed, in a crueller manner.
Ned ran down and placed himself between victim and pursuers. The former, bruised and breathless, pattered out a hurried fire of explanation and entreaty.
The young gentleman faced the little mob—half-a-dozen or so—that had closed upon itself—compact claypolism.
“What do you want with this man?” he said.
His demand evoked a clamour of vituperation.