tops in the middle of us, gives a nod to
each one and continuing his ingenuous reflections aloud, he murmurs,
"Hem, hem! The most important thing of all, in war, is the return to
religious ideas. Hem!"

The monstrous calm of the saying makes me start, and communicates final
agitation to Brisbille. Throwing himself upright, the blacksmith
flourishes his trembling fist, tries to hold it under the old priest's
chin, and bawls, "You? Shall I tell you how _you_ make me feel, eh?
Why----"

Some young men seize him, hustle him and throw him down. His head
strikes the ground and he is at last immobile. Father Piot raises his
arms to heaven and kneels over the vanquished madman. There are tears
in the old man's eyes.

When we have made a few steps away I cannot help saying to Marie, with
a sort of courage, that Brisbille is not wrong in all that he says.
Marie is shocked, and says, "Oh!"

"There was a time," she says, reproachfully, "when you set about him!"

I should like Marie to understand what I am wanting to say. I explain
to her, that although he may be a drunkard and a brute, he is right in
what he thinks. He stammers and hiccups the truth, but it was not he
who made it, and it is whole and pure. He is a degraded prophet, but
the relics of his dreams have remained accurate. And that saintly old
man, who is devotion incarnate, who would not harm a fly, he is only a
lowly servant of lies; but he brings his little link to the chain, and
he smiles on the side of the executioners.

"One shouldn't ever confuse ideas with men. It's a mistake that does a
lot of harm."

Marie lowers her head and says nothing; then she murmurs, "Yes, that's
true."

I pick up the little sentence she has given me. It is the first time
that approval of that sort has brought her near to me. She has
intelligence within her; she understands certain things. Women, in
spite of thoughtless impulses, are quicker in understanding than men.
Then she says to me, "Since you came back, you've been worrying your
head too much."

Crillon was on our heels. He stands in front of me, and looks
displeased.

"I was listening to you just now," he says; "I must tell you that since
you came back you have the air of a foreigner--a Belgian or an
American. You say intolantable things. We thought at first your mind
had got a bit unhinged. Unfortunately, it's not that. Is it because
you've turned sour? Anyway, I don't know what advantage you'r