self-esteem at stake in that conflict of muscular strength, that the
results might be more serious than they seemed to be amid the laughter
and the singing. The poor old hemp-beater, who fought like a lion, was
pressed against the wall and squeezed until he lost his breath. More
than one champion was floored and unintentionally trodden under foot,
more than one hand that grasped at the spit was covered with blood.
Those sports are dangerous, and the accidents were so serious in later
years that the peasants determined to allow the ceremony of the
_livrées_ to fall into desuetude. I believe that we saw the last of it
at Françoise Meillant's wedding, and still it was only a mock-battle.

The contest was animated enough at Germain's wedding. It was a point of
honor on one side and the other to attack and to defend La Guillette's
fireside. The huge spit was twisted like a screw in the powerful hands
that struggled for possession of it. A pistol-shot set fire to a small
store of hemp in skeins that lay on a shelf suspended from the ceiling.
That incident created a diversion, and while some hastened to smother
the germ of a conflagration, the grave-digger, who had climbed to the
attic unperceived, came down the chimney and seized the spit, just as
the drover, who was defending it near the hearth, raised it above his
head to prevent its being snatched from him. Some time before the
assault, the matrons had taken care to put out the fire, fearing that
some one might fall in and be burned while they were struggling close
beside it. The facetious grave-digger, in concert with the drover,
possessed himself of the trophy without difficulty, therefore, and threw
it across the fire-dogs. It was done! No one was allowed to touch it
after that. He leaped into the room, and lighted a bit of straw which
surrounded the spit, to make a pretence of cooking the goose, which was
torn to pieces and its limbs strewn over the floor.