“What should prevent me, you dog, from grinding you to powder?” the old man shrieked, shaking his fists under his nose.
The servant shrank back, and at that moment both his master’s fists struck him in the face. He staggered back—every drop of blood left his dark face; without uttering a sound, he seized upon an axe.
But at this moment, Paul, who had been watching the scene with growing anxiety, grasped his arm from behind, wrested the weapon from his hand, and threw it into the well.
His father tried to clutch the servant by the throat again, but with quick resolution Paul seized him round the body, and although the old man kicked and struggled, gathering up all strength, carried him in his arms into the parlor, the door of which he locked from the outside.
“What have you done to your father?” his mother whimpered. She had beheld this deed of violence petrified with horror, for that her son could attack his father was to her perfectly incomprehensible. She looked shyly up at him, and repeated, wofully, “What have you done to your father?”
Paul bent down to her, kissed her hand, and said, “Be calm, mother, I had to save his life.”
“And now you have locked him up? Paul, Paul!”
“He must remain there till Michel has gone,” he replied. “Don’t open the door for him, or there will be an accident.”
Then he walked out into the yard. The servant was leaning against the stable door, chewing his black beard, and leering at him viciously.
“Michel Raudszus!” he called out to him.