As it was beginning to be dark Pache stealthily made his way to the Tour à Glaire and slipped into the park, while the three others cautiously followed him at a distance.
“It won’t do to let him suspect anything,” said Chouteau. “Be on your guard in case he should look around.”
But when he had advanced another hundred paces Pache evidently had no idea there was anyone near, for he began to hurry forward at a swift gait, not so much as casting a look behind. They had no difficulty in tracking him to the adjacent quarries, where they fell on him as he was in the act of removing two great flat stones, to take from the cavity beneath part of a loaf of bread. It was the last of his store; he had enough left for one more meal.
“You dirty, sniveling priest’s whelp!” roared Lapoulle, “so that is why you sneak away from us! Give me that; it’s my share!”
Why should he give his bread? Weak and puny as he was, his slight form dilated with anger, while he clutched the loaf against his bosom with all the strength he could master. For he also was hungry.
“Let me alone. It’s mine.”
Then, at sight of Lapoulle’s raised fist, he broke away and ran, sliding down the steep banks of the quarries, making his way across the bare fields in the direction of Donchery, the three others after him in hot pursuit. He gained on them, however, being lighter than they, and possessed by such overmastering fear, so determined to hold on to what was his property, that his speed seemed to rival the wind. He had already covered more than half a mile and was approaching the little wood on the margin of the stream when he encountered Jean and Maurice, who were on their way back to their resting-place for the night. He addressed them an appealing, distressful cry as he passed; while they, astounded by the wild hunt that went fleeting by, stood motionless at the edge of a field, and thus it was that they beheld the ensuing tragedy.
As luck would have it, Pache tripped over a stone and fell. In an instant the others were on top of him—shouting, swearing, their passion roused to such a pitch of frenzy that they were like wolves that had run down their prey.
“Give me that,” yelled Lapoulle, “or by G-d I’ll kill you!”
And he had raised his fist again when Chouteau, taking from his pocket the penknife with which he had slaughtered the horse and opening it, placed it in his hand.