“ You might be Satan the Hermit,” replied Gudule, who was regaining hope, “but I should have nothing else to say to you, and I should never be afraid of you.”
“ Tête-Dieu ,” said Tristan, “here is a crone! Ah! So the witch girl hath fled! And in which direction did she go?” Gudule replied in a careless tone,—
“ Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to set out on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once more.
“ Monseigneur,” suddenly said an archer, “ask the old elf why the bars of her window are broken in this manner.”
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable mother. Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.
“ They have always been thus,” she stammered.
“ Bah!” r
