They were pitched in different keys, those simple exclamations.
As for Bertrand, he had breath for no more, since the oaths which rose hot to his lips were choked back by that firm grip on his throat.
Morice Conyers had learnt boxing in England from Richmond himself.
Cécile de Quernais sat on a mossy bank close by, sobbing piteously, from sheer exhaustion and the shock of that desperate struggle.
The sounds of her distress tempted Morice to choke not only oaths, but life too, out of his fallen adversary.
But to murder one of the people might lead to consequences now, though five years ago it would have been no matter at all. So Bertrand was allowed to live.
Mademoiselle Cécile, wiping pretty eyes with a tiny piece of cambric, implored this between gasping breaths.
It was more than he deserved, however, Morice explained in a few words of execrable Breton, enforcing each syllable with a kick.
Bertrand crouched, whining as cur under the whip. But his eyes were vicious.
"Go to your kennel, dog and pig," commanded his opponent, with a last blow. "And next time you use ugly words about your masters, your tongue shall be cut out."