The sounds were harsh, with nothing human in them.
A magic charm seemed to fasten the recorder’s hand to the key in the door.
“Come, recorder, my boy, go on! there you are! go on!” cried one of the guests, clapping his hands.
“I wager he is as warm as if it were the month of August, although the wind is blowing from the north,” said another.
“Give him time to invoke his patron and make a vow,” said a third.
“His patron is St. Coward,” said the lord of Signerol; “no doubt he is making a vow never to brave another danger if he delivers him from this one.”
Pushed to extremity by these jeers, and reflecting that, after all, Raimond V. was not so cruel as to force him into real danger, the recorder opened the door, and suddenly jumped back.
At that moment he was roughly overthrown by the onset of two Camargnan bulls, that rushed from the stable, head downward, and uttering a peculiar and stifled bellowing, for they were muzzled.
The two animals were not of very large size, but were full of vigour.
One was tawny, streaked with dark brown; the other was black as jet.