“We’ll pull down their bazaar.”
“We’ll throw the house out of the windows.”
“When we have made the mealy-mouthed chits sing,” cried Ciboule, “we will make them dance to the clatter of stones on their heads.”
“Come, my Wolves! attention!” cried the quarryman, still in the same stentorian voice; “one more volley, and if the Devourers do not come out, down with the door!”
This proposition was received with cheers of savage ardor, and the quarryman, whose voice rose above the tumult, cried with all the strength of his herculean lungs: “Attention, my Wolves. Make ready! all together. Now, are you ready?”
“Yes, yes—all ready!”
“Then, present!—fire!” And, for the second time, a shower of enormous stones poured upon that side of the Common Dwelling-house which was turned towards the fields. A part of these projectiles broke such of the windows as had been spared by the first volley. To the sharp smashing and cracking of glass were joined the ferocious cries uttered in chorus by this formidable mob, drunk with its own excesses: “Death to the Devourers!”
Soon these outcries became perfectly frantic, when, through the broken windows, the assailants perceived women running in terror, some with children in their arms, and others raising their hands to heaven, calling aloud for help; whilst a few, bolder than the rest, leaned out of the windows, and tried to fasten the outside blinds.
“There come the ants out of their holes!” cried Ciboule, stooping to pick up a stone. “We must have a fling at them for luck!” The stone, hurled by the steady, masculine hand of the virago, went straight to its mark, and struck an unfortunate woman who was trying to close one of the shutters.
“Hit in the white!” cried the hideous creature.