burst of laughter broke forth, and Anthony, beaming, picked up his
pig, acted as though he were dressing his wounds, and exclaimed: "Since
you will not eat, you shall drink, nom de Dieu!" And they went to the
wine shop to get some brandy.

The soldier rolled his eyes, which had a wicked expression, but he drank,
nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint Anthony held
his head to the great delight of his companions.

The Norman, red as a tomato, his eyes ablaze, filled up the glasses and
clinked, saying: "Here's to you!". And the Prussian, without speaking a
word, poured down one after another glassfuls of cognac.

It was a contest, a battle, a revenge! Who would drink the most, nom d'un
nom! They could neither of them stand any more when the liter was
emptied. But neither was conquered. They were tied, that was all. They
would have to begin again the next day.

They went out staggering and started for home, walking beside the dung
cart which was drawn along slowly by two horses.

Snow began to fall and the moonless night was sadly lighted by this dead
whiteness on the plain. The men began to feel the cold, and this
aggravated their intoxication. Saint Anthony, annoyed at not being the
victor, amused himself by shoving his companion so as to make him fall
over into the ditch. The other would dodge backwards, and each time he
did he uttered some German expression in an angry tone, which made the
peasant roar with laughter. Finally the Prussian lost his temper, and
just as Anthony was rolling towards him he responded with such a terrific
blow with his fist that the Colossus staggered.

Then, excited by the brandy, the old man seized the pugilist round the
waist, shook him for a few moments as he would have done with a little
child, and pitched him at random to the other side of the road. Then,
satisfied with this piece of work, he crossed his arms and began to laugh
afresh.

But the soldier picked himself up in a hurry, his head bare, his helmet
having rolled off, and drawing his sword he rushed over to Father
Anthony.

When he saw him coming the peasant seized his whip by the top of the
handle, his big holly wood whip, straight, strong and supple as the sinew
of an ox.

The Prussian approached, his head down, making a lunge with his sword,
sure of killing his adversary. But the old fellow, squarely hitting the
blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it
aside, and with