Towards eleven o'clock, Bas-Rouge, who had growled at times earlier in the night, began to bark violently to the right of the yard.
"What is the matter with him?" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau; "one would think there were people moving about in our lane."
Mathurin, growing cold, silently raised himself on his elbows. After a minute the farmer resumed:
"Do you hear how our dog is barking? There certainly must be someone near."
"Father," returned Mathurin, "he is as mad as a March hare at this time of year. I think he sees bernacles flying in the air." The barking sounded nearer, not angry but joyous, as of a dog being taken for a walk. Then a footstep was distinctly heard, and the animal began to howl.
"They are throwing stones at Bas-Rouge," exclaimed the farmer. "I must go."
"No; do not go. I will not have you go! Stay, father, stay!"
"Why?" asked Toussaint Lumineau. "I have done it scores of times before, and have taken no harm."
Sitting on the side of his bed, the old peasant listened yet for a few seconds, before hastily putting on his breeches and running to the door. A thought flashed through Mathurin's mind:
"It is André. I have but to say one word, and my father will be with him in time. Shall I?" Six years of suffering and of being in subordinate position to the younger ones, answered: "No!" and letting himself fall back on his pillow, he said, as if reassured: