“And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country.”
“True? he said that in his sermon.”
“Our wives heard it.”
“Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the country!”
“Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd in chorus.
“To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried Morok, with the voice of a Stentor; “on to the factory!”
“Yes! to the factory! to the factory!” repeated the crowd, with furious stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.
These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he whispered to Morok: “It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands of it.”
“We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these fellows the slip on the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried aloud, addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: “Brandy!—let us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat.” He threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.
“What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do jolly companions, like we are, drink out of glasses?” So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed it to the gigantic quarryman.