Sambuc shrugged his shoulders and laughed contemptuously. What did he care for the Prussians, the dirty cowards! And all at once he exploded in a fit of anger, pounding the table with his fist.
“Tonnerre de Dieu! I don’t mind the uhlans so much; they’re not so bad, but it’s the other one I’d like to get a chance at once—you know whom I mean, the other fellow, the spy, the man who used to work for you.”
“Goliah?” said Father Fouchard.
Silvine, who had resumed her sewing, dropped it in her lap and listened with intense interest.
“That’s his name, Goliah! Ah, the brigand! he is as familiar with every inch of the wood of Dieulet as I am with my pocket, and he’s like enough to get us pinched some fine morning. I heard of him to-day at the Maltese Cross making his boast that he would settle our business for us before we’re a week older. A dirty hound, he is, and he served as guide to the Prussians the day before the battle of Beaumont; I leave it to these fellows if he didn’t.”
“It’s as true as there’s a candle standing on that table!” attested Cabasse.
“Per silentia amica lunæ,” added Ducat, whose quotations were not always conspicuous for their appositeness.
But Sambuc again brought his heavy fist down upon the table. “He has been tried and adjudged guilty, the scoundrel! If ever you hear of his being in the neighborhood just send me word, and his head shall go and keep company with the heads of the two uhlans in the Meuse; yes, by G-d! I pledge you my word it shall.”
There was silence. Silvine was very white, and gazed at the men with unwinking, staring eyes.
“Those are things best not be talked too much about,” old Fouchard prudently declared. “Your health, and good-night to you.”