None of the women dared to answer. All, in the shadow, saw the outlines of a vague form.
Then he advanced toward the door. When he crossed the threshold, a furnace-like heat and a repugnant stench cut short his breath. He turned round, went out.
"It's a scythe," he said.
In fact, it was a scythe hanging on the wall.
"Ah! a scythe."
And the voices recommenced.
"Liberata! Liberata!"
"Are you mad?"
"She is mad."
"It's getting dark. Let us go."