“Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow.”
“But what does she want with that axe?”
“It is to defend her wolf,” again replied Matheline, who carried a pitch-fork.
Pol Bihan held an enormous holly stick which resembled a club. Every one was armed either with threshing flails or rakes or hoes; some even bore scythes, carried upright; for they had not only come to look on, but to make an end of the man-wolf.
Again was heard the chime of the Matin-bells of the convent of Ruiz, and immediately a smothered cry ran from group to group:
“Wolf! wolf! wolf!”
Josserande heard it, for she paused in her descent and cast an anxious look around; but, seeing no one, she raised her eyes to heaven and clasped her hands over the handle of her axe.
The wolf, in the meantime, with fuming nostrils and eyes which looked like burning coals, leaped over the stones of the enclosure and began to run around the circle.
“See, see!” said Pol Bihan, “he no longer limps.”
And Matheline, dazzled by the red light from his eyes, added: “It seems he is no longer one-eyed!”