"A peasant from Angimont," replied Martin-Guerre, in a no less nondescript patois.
And he kept on his way and his song with increasing vigor and spirit,—
"Se campant au haut des vignes
Le duc d'Albe et sa compagnie,
À Saint-Arnou, près nos fossés,
C'était pour faire l'entreprise
De reconnaître nos fossés—"[6]
"Ho, there! Will you hold your noise and stop, wretched peasant, with your cursed song?" shouted the same harsh voice.
Martin-Guerre reflected that these importunate fellows who hailed him were ten against one; that, thanks to their horses, they could overtake him with ease, and that he might do an immense amount of harm by running away. So he stopped short. After all, he was not altogether disappointed at having an opportunity to display his self-possession and his cleverness. His master, who seemed sometimes to doubt the existence of those qualities in him, would have no excuse for it henceforth, if he should succeed in extricating himself with address from such a perilous position.
At first he assumed an air of most perfect self-confidence.
"By Saint Quentin the martyr!" he muttered, approaching his captors, "this is a fine business for you, keeping a poor belated peasant away from his wife and little ones at Angimont. Come, tell me, pray, what you want of me."
He meant to say this in Picardy patois; but he really said it in the dialect of Auvergne with the accent of a Provençal.
The man who had hailed him had a similar intention of replying in French, but the best he could do was Walloon with a German accent.
"What do we want of you? To question you and search you, night-prowler; for how do we know that there isn't a spy hidden under your peasant's smock?"