"Let us see if her flesh feels!" he cried, and cast it. It fell short of her, being ill aimed; she did not slacken her speed, nor turn out of her course; she still came towards them erect and with an even tread.
"Who lamed my Rémy?" screamed the cripple's mother.
"Who broke my grandson's arm?" cackled the old woman that sat knitting.
"Who withered my peach-tree?" the old gardener hooted.
"Who freed the devil-bird and put me on the trap?" yelled the boy with the starling.
"Who flung the tile on the almond?" shouted the flower-girl's lover.
"Who made my sister bring forth a little beast, blind as a mole?" shrieked the woman, washing in the brazen bowl.
"Who is a witch?—who dances naked?—who bathes with devils at the full moon?" cried the youth who had plucked the goose bare, alive; and he stooped for a pebble, and aimed better than his comrade, and flung it at her as she came.
"It is a shame to see the child of Reine Flamma so dealt with!" murmured the old creature that was grouping her salads. But her voice found no echo.
The old soldier even rebuked her. "A jettatrice should be killed for the good of the people," he mumbled.