The same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. Without, the wind still moaned and dashed about the sign in front of the house. This dismal creaking, and the dull boiling of a pot placed over the fire, were the only sounds that were heard. The two children observed, with secret fright, that their mother did not speak. Although she was habitually taciturn, this complete silence, and a certain drawing in of the lips, announced to them that the widow was in what they called her white passion, that is to say, was a prey to concentrated irritation.
The fire was going out for want of fuel.
"François, a log," said Calabash.
The young mender of forbidden nets looked into a nook beside the chimney, and replied:
"There are no more there."
"Then go to the wood-pile," said Calabash.
François murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir.
"Do you hear me, François?" inquired Calabash, harshly.
The felon's widow laid on her knees a towel she was also unmarking, and looked at her son. He had lowered his head, but he guessed he felt, if we may use the expression, the fierce look his mother cast upon him, and, fearful of encountering her dreaded countenance, the boy remained without stirring.
"I say, are you deaf, François?" said Calabash, in an irritated tone. "Mother, you see!"