But from behind Pol Bihan cried out:
“Since when have beggars been allowed to preach sermons? Ah! if it were not for my stiff leg.... Kill him, kill him! ... wolf! wolf! wolf!”
“Wolf! wolf!” repeated Matheline, who tried to drive off the old beggar with her pitch-fork.
But the fork broke like glass in her hands, as it touched the poor man’s tatters, and at the same time twenty voices cried:
“The wolf! the wolf! Where has the wolf gone?”
Soon was seen where the wolf had gone. A black mass dashed through the crowd, and Pol Bihan uttered a horrible cry:
“Help! help! Matheline!”
You have often heard the noise made by a dog when crunching a bone. This was the noise they heard, but louder, as though there were many dogs crunching many bones. And a strange voice, like the growling of a wolf, said:
“The strength of a man is a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Bihan, traitor, I eat your strength!”
The black mass again bounded through the terrified crowd, his bloody tongue hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting fire.