ce turning his head. The Brother silently
crept to the heap of stones, and waited till the old man was some
distance off. Then, with both hands, and with mad violence, he again
began flinging stones, but they fell harmlessly upon the dusty road.
Jeanbernat did not condescend to notice them, but went his way, upright
like a tree, through the clear night.

'The accursed one!--Satan carries him on!' shrieked Brother Archangias,
as he hurled his last stone. 'An old scoundrel, that the least touch
ought to upset! But he is baked in hell's fire. I smelt his claws.'

The Brother stamped with impotent rage on the scattered flints. Then he
suddenly attacked Abbe Mouret. 'It was all your fault,' he cried; 'you
ought to have helped me, and, between us, we could have strangled him.'

Meantime, at the other end of the village, the uproar in the Bambousses'
house had become greater than ever. The rhythmic tapping of glasses on
a table could be distinctly heard. The priest resumed his walk without
raising his head, making his way towards the flood of bright light that
streamed out of the window like the flare of a fire of vine-cuttings.
The Brother followed him gloomily; his cassock soiled with dust, and one
of his cheeks bleeding from a stone-cut. And, after a short interval of
silence, he asked, in his harsh voice: 'Shall you go?'

Then as Abbe Mouret did not answer, he went on: 'Take care! You are
lapsing into sin again. It was sufficient for that man to pass by to
send a thrill through your whole body. I saw you by the light of the
moon looking as pale as a girl. Take care! take care! Do you hear me?
Another time God will not pardon you--you will sink into the lowest
abyss! Ah! wretched piece of clay that you are, filth is mastering you!'

Thereupon, the priest at last raised his head. Big tears were streaming
from his eyes, and it was in gentle heartbroken accents that he spoke:
'Why do you speak to me like that?--You are always with me, and you know
my ceaseless struggles. Do not doubt me, leave me strength to master
myself.'

Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night air
with such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even Brother
Archangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched. He made no
reply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek. When
they reached the Bambousses' house, he refused to go inside. He seated
himself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned car