“Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.
“Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!” cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced towards Morok.
A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers?”
“It would be the first time!”
“Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”
“We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so well off?”
“They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a shaft, like dogs to turn spits,” cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.
“And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,” added another.
“Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and dogs!” cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.
“The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to go to mass!—it is abominable.