"Kill her! kill the whelp!" yelled the men, and crowded round Noémi.
"She is a Tarde! Hands off!" called another. "Take the men, do not touch a woman!"
Then the crowd precipitated itself on the bound routier; Amanieu and Roger drew their swords and kept the peasants at bay.
"She is a cub of Gros Guillem, I swear it!" called a man. "Kill the whole breed, or she will mother loups-garoug!" (Were-wolves.)
"Messire Jean! we have no cause against you," said an immense man, a farmer, coming up and laying hold of Jean's horse's bridle. "But we will not spare any of that Domme race. They are accursed—have they not been excommunicated by the Pope—by the Bishop? We do not spare a wolf-cub however piteously it whine, however young it be, to whatever sex it may belong; and if this be a cub of the were-wolf Guillem, shall we be squeamish? Swear to us she is not of the race, and she shall pass untouched. If not, we will kill her."
Densely packed round him, brandishing forks and clubs and axes were the men, rendered savage by oppression, and now reckless by success. None were the retainers of the Del' Peyras. Jean knew not to what master they belonged. The men roared—
"Swear she is not Guillem's daughter, or we will kill her!"
The moment was one of supreme danger.
"Noémi!" said he hastily. "Hold out thy hand!"
She obeyed, extending her fingers straight before her.