A low murmur died away into silence.
Père Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.
A harsh laugh interrupted him.
"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your whinings in your throat. Malédiction! it's always the way of you priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have our share of the kisses."
He looked round, expecting the coarse jest to meet with applause. But none came. The men of Kérnak were thinking.
"Silence!" cried Père Mouet sternly, raising his hand again. "See you not where we stand, fellow? Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul tongue in your throat in punishment. Repent you of your evil ways ere it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."
Again the murmur rose from the crowd.
Religion and superstition were too deeply imbedded in these Breton peasants to be easily up-rooted. Already fear of the Church's anathema was at work in their hearts.
But Jean Floessel had been in Paris. He had learnt things there—amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had taught him.
He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory. With a scream of rage he flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man standing there so fearlessly before him.