"Where is that knave, that miscreant? Why is he not here among you?"
"He must have remained cutting stone at his quarry," put in a timid voice; "he never quits work until dark."
"And what is it that Fergan the Quarryman says? Let's see how far his audacity goes," replied the bailiff.
"Master Garin," the old serf went on to say, "Fergan recognizes that we are serfs of our lord, that we are compelled to cultivate for his benefit the fields where it has pleased him to settle us forever, us and our children. Fergan says that we are bound to labor, to plant, to gather in the harvests on the lands of the castle, to mount guard at the strongholds of the seigniory and to defend it."
"We know the rights of the seigniory. But what else does Fergan say?"
"Fergan pretends that the taxes imposed upon us increase unceasingly, and that, after having paid our dues in products, the little we can draw from our harvests is insufficient to satisfy the ever new demands of our lord. Oh, dear Master Garin, we drink water, we are clad in rags, for only nourishment we have chestnuts, berries, and, when in luck, a little bread of barley or oats."
"What!" exclaimed the bailiff in a threatening voice, "you have all the good things, and yet you dare complain!"
"No, no, Master Garin," replied the frightened serfs; "no, we do not complain! We are on the road to Paradise!"
"If, occasionally, we suffer a little, it is all the better for our salvation, as the parish priest tells us. We shall enjoy the pleasures of the next world."
"We do not complain. It is only Fergan who spoke that way the other day. We listened to him, but without approving his words."