"Nâni" (no), cried Agapit, furiously, "thou wilt not. Fit company art thou for strangers!"
Isidore stared confusedly at him, while Vesper settled the question by inviting him in the back seat and installing Rose beside him. Then he held out his arms to Narcisse, who had been watching the disturbance with drowsy interest, fearful only that the Englishman from Boston might leave him to take a hand in it.
As soon as Vesper mounted the seat beside him, Agapit jerked the reins, and set off at a rapid pace; so rapid that Vesper at first caught only snatches of the dialogue carried on behind him, that was tearful on the part of Rose, and meek on that of Isidore.
Soon Agapit sobered down, and Rose's words could be distinguished. "My cousin, how canst thou? Think only of thy mother and thy wife; and the good priest,—suppose he had come!"
"Then thou wouldst have seen running like that of foxes," replied Isidore, in good-natured, semi-interested tones.
"Thou wast not born a drunkard. When sober thou art good, but there could not be a worse man when drunk. Such a pile of cursing words to go up to the sky,—and such a volley of fisting. Ah, how thou wast wounding Christ!"
Isidore held on tightly, for Agapit was still driving fast, and uttered an inaudible reply.
"Tell me where thou didst get that liquor," said Rose.
"It was a stolen cask, my cousin."
"Isidore!"