"Wretch," he said, "put down that knife and come no nearer, or I will run you through, woman though you seem to be! Begone, vulture!"
The robber of the dead and wounded paused and stared at him; then she assumed a whining tone, and exclaimed in her northern accent:
"Oh, good gentleman, you mistake. I am no slayer of injured men, but a comforter thereof. Will you not take a sup of good Nantz to ease you?"
"No, begone! Away. Yet stay. Where is the nearest village where I can procure food? Answer me, quickly."
"A mile off, good gentleman; there is an auberge there. It is very good. I keep it."
"You!"
"Yes, I. Yes, an excellent inn. But," with a suspicious glance at him, "why not go to the fort, good gentleman? The marshal is there and that king who has been ruined by his own subjects to-day."
"I do not wish to go to the fort. I am not a soldier, but a sailor—saved from one of the transports. Direct me."
"Ha!" she said, with a grunt. "You are not the first. There are many like you who do not want to go to the fort. A many poltroons who are deserting from the army, now defeat has come to France. Are you deserting too, friend?"
"No. But I have nothing to do with the forts nor the army. Direct me, I say."