"Because I know that such as you purpose no good."
In the morning the old Seigneur awoke, and came forth. He said nothing, but as he looked at the collier, who was eating brown bread, the man concluded he was hungry, and readily shared his breakfast with him, but absolutely refused to break bread with the rover. Peyrot was hungry, and irritated because he was not given the opportunity of executing his intention. He would have attacked the collier but that he feared him; the man was tall, muscular, and on the alert. His black face disguised his feelings, but his eyes flashed with a saturnine light at every suspicious movement of the man-at-arms.
"They come! they come!" shouted the charcoal-burner, starting forward.
"They come!" echoed Peyrot, and at once he had his sword out, and had struck at Ogier from behind. The blow would have been fatal had not the old man worn Le Gros Guillem's jerkin lined with ring mail. In a moment Peyrot was caught by the fork of the collier, round the throat, under chin and ears, was flung backwards and pinned to the ground.
"Haro! help all! I have the wolf!" yelled the man, and from out of the scrub poured the peasants returning from the chase.
They had been so far successful that they had killed the male wolf and the cubs, but the dam had escaped them. They were exultant, excited by the hunt; they carried the beasts they had killed slung across poles.
"See here!" cried the collier. "Here is the worst wolf of all—he tried to murder the Sieur del' Peyra!"
"We will drive him into your charcoal and burn him!" cried a peasant.
"That will spoil my charcoal. He is not worth it," answered the collier.
"We will hack him to pieces!" "We will cudgel out his brains!" "We will flay him alive!" As many voices, so many opinions.