"You will beat me also, is it not so?"
"No! but if you speak of La Louve I'll thrash Nicholas; now go on, it is your affair, and his also."
"You," cried the enraged bandit, raising his dangerous knife, "you thrash me?"
"Nicholas, no knife!" cried the widow, endeavoring to seize the arm of her son. But he, drunk with wine and anger, pushed his mother rudely on one side, and rushed at his brother. Martial fell back quickly, seized his heavy knotted stick, and put himself on the defensive.
"Nicholas, no knife!" repeated the widow.
"Let him alone!" cried Calabash, arming herself with a hatchet.
Nicholas, brandishing his formidable knife, watched a favorable moment to throw himself on his brother. "I tell you," he cried, "that I'll crush you and your Louve, both. Now, mother—now, Calabash! let us cool him; this has lasted too long!" And, believing the time favorable for his attack, the brigand rushed toward his brother with his knife raised.
Martial, very expert with a club, retreated quickly, lifted his stick, made a quick turn with it in the air, describing the figure eight, and let it fall heavily on the arm of Nicholas, who, hurt severely, dropped his knife. "Brigand, you have broken my arm!" cried he, taking hold of his arm with his left hand.
"No, I felt my club rebound," answered Martial, kicking the knife under the table. Then, profiting by the situation of Nicholas, he took him by the collar, pushed him roughly backward toward the door of the little cellar, opened it with one hand, and with the other threw him in and shut the door.
Returning afterward to the two women, he took Calabash by the shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, her cries, and a blow from the hatchet which wounded him slightly in the hand, he locked her in the lower room of the tavern, which was adjoining the kitchen; then, addressing the widow, still stupefied at this maneuver, as skillful as it was unexpected, he said, coldly, "Now, mother, for us two."