Werewolf Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

the devil, he ought to know, seeing that he has been perched up there so as not to lose any of its movements,” put in Marcotte.

      “But I swear, my Lord,” said Thibault, “that I don’t know what it is you mean about this wretched buck.”

      “Ah, I thought so,” cried Marcotte, delighted to divert his master’s ill-humour from himself, “he has not seen it, he has not seen the animal at all, he does not know what we mean by this wretched buck! But look here, my Lord, see, the marks on these leaves where the animal has bitten; it was just here that the dogs came to a full stop, and now, although the ground is good to shew every mark, we can find no trace of the animal, for ten, twenty, or a hundred paces even?”

      “You hear?” said the Baron, joining his words on to those of the pricker, “you were up there, and the deer here at your feet. It did not go by like a mouse without making any sound, and you did not see or hear. You must needs have seen or heard it!”

      “He has killed the deer,” said Marcotte “and hidden it away in a bush, that’s as clear as the day.”

      “Oh, my Lord,” cried Thibault, who knew better than anybody else how mistaken the pricker was in making this accusation, “My Lord, by all the saints in paradise, I swear to you that I have not killed your deer; I swear it to you on the salvation of my soul, and, may I perish on the spot if I have given him even the slightest scratch. And besides, I could not have killed him without wounding him, and if I had wounded him, blood would have flowed; look, I pray you, sir,” continued Thibault turning to the pricker “and God be thanked, you will find no trace of blood. I, kill a poor beast! and, my God, with what? Where is my weapon? God knows I have no other weapon than this bill-hook. Look yourself, my Lord.”

      But unfortunately for Thibault, he had hardly uttered these words, before Maître Engoulevent, who had been prowling about for some minutes past, re-appeared, carrying the boar-spear which Thibault had thrown into one of the bushes before climbing up the tree.

      He handed the weapon to the Baron.

      There was no doubt about it—Engoulevent was Thibault’s evil genius.

      CHAPTER III

       AGNELETTE

       Table of Contents

      The Baron took the weapon which Engoulevent handed him, and carefully and deliberately examined the boar-spear from point to handle, without saying a word. On the handle had been carved a little wooden shoe, which had served as Thibault’s device while making the tour of France, as thereby he was able to recognise his own weapon. The Baron now pointed to this, saying to Thibault as he did so:

      “Ah, ah, Master Simpleton! there is something which witnesses terribly against you! I must confess this boar-spear smells to me uncommonly of venison, by the devil it does! However, all I have now to say to you is this: You have been poaching, which is a serious crime; you have perjured yourself, which is a great sin; I am going to enforce expiation from you for the one and for the other, to help towards the salvation of that soul by which you have sworn.”

      Whereupon turning to the pricker, he continued: “Marcotte, strip off that rascal’s vest and shirt, and tie him up to a tree with a couple of the dog leashes—and then give him thirty-six strokes across the back with your shoulder belt, a dozen for his perjury, and two dozen for his poaching; no, I make a mistake, a dozen for poaching and two dozen for perjuring himself, God’s portion must be the largest.”

      This order caused great rejoicing among the menials, who thought it good luck to have a culprit on whom they could avenge themselves for the mishaps of the day.

      In spite of Thibault’s protestations, who swore by all the saints in the calender, that he had killed neither buck, nor doe, neither goat nor kidling, he was divested of his garments and firmly strapped to the trunk of a tree; then the execution commenced.

      The pricker’s strokes were so heavy that Thibault, who had sworn not to utter a sound, and bit his lips to enable himself to keep his resolution, was forced at the third blow to open his mouth and cry out.

      The Baron, as we have already seen, was about the roughest man of his class for a good thirty miles round, but he was not hard-hearted, and it was a distress to him to listen to the cries of the culprit as they became more and more frequent. As, however, the poachers on His Highness’s estate had of late grown bolder and more troublesome, he decided that he had better let the sentence be carried out to the full, but he turned his horse with the intention of riding away, determined no longer to remain as a spectator.

      As he was on the point of doing this, a young girl suddenly emerged from the underwood, threw herself on her knees beside the horse, and lifting her large, beautiful eyes, all wet with tears, to the Baron, cried:

      “In the name of the God of mercy, my Lord, have pity on that man!”

      The Lord of Vez looked down at the young girl. She was indeed a lovely child; hardly sixteen years of age, of a slender and exquisite figure, with a pink and white complexion, large blue eyes, soft and tender in expression, and a crown of fair hair, which fell in luxuriant waves over neck and shoulders, escaping from underneath the shabby little grey linen cap, which endeavoured in vain to imprison them.

      All this the Baron took in with a glance, in spite of the humble clothing of the beautiful suppliant, and as he had no dislike to a pretty face, he smiled down on the charming young peasant girl, in response to the pleading of her eloquent eyes.

      But, as he looked without speaking, and all the while the blows were still falling, she cried again, with a voice and gesture of even more earnest supplication.

      “Have pity, in the name of Heaven, my Lord! Tell your servants to let the poor man go, his cries pierce my heart.”

      “Ten thousand fiends!” cried the Grand Master; “you take a great interest in that rascal over there, my pretty child. Is he your brother?”

      “No, my Lord.”

      “Your cousin?”

      “No, my Lord.”

      “Your lover?”

      “My lover! My Lord is laughing at me.”

      “Why not? If it were so, my sweet girl, I must confess I should envy him his lot.”

      The girl lowered her eyes.

      “I do not know him, my Lord, and have never seen him before to-day.”

      “Without counting that now she only sees him wrong side before,” Engoulevent ventured to put in, thinking that it was a suitable moment for a little pleasantry.

      “Silence, sirrah!” said the Baron sternly. Then, once more turning to the girl with a smile.

      “Really!” he said. “Well, if he is neither a relation nor a lover, I should like to see how far your love for your neighbour will let you go. Come, a bargain, pretty girl!”

      “How, my Lord?”

      “Grace for that scoundrel in return for a kiss.”

      “Oh! with all my heart!” cried the young girl. “Save the life of a man with a kiss! I am sure that our good Curé himself would say there was no sin in that.”

      And without waiting for the Baron to stoop and take himself what he had asked for, she threw off her wooden-shoe, placed her dainty little foot on the tip of the wolf-hunter’s boot, and taking hold of the horse’s mane, lifted herself up with a spring to the level of the face of the hardy huntsman, and there of her own accord offered him her round cheek, fresh, and velvety as the down of an August peach.

      The Lord of Vez had bargained for one kiss, but he took two; then, true to his sworn word, he made a sign to Marcotte to stay the execution.

      Marcotte was religiously counting his strokes; the twelfth