If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.
Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.
He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kérnak were of another mind.
The tide had turned.
It was no longer "À bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the howl of men who seek vengeance.
Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.
The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.
And behind him came the avengers of Père Mouet.
He ran well—-that Jean Floessel—for over a mile, stumbling, sweating, cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.
And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kérnak, and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the same kindly influence.