But Charlot was obstinate. The Marquis might be claiming no more
than by ancient law was the due of the Seigneur, but Charlot was by
no means minded to submit in craven acquiescence to that brutal,
barbarous law.

"My lord," he cried, "you shall not take her. She is my wife. She
belongs to me. You shall not take her!"

He caught hold of the Marquis's bridle with such a strength and
angry will that the horse was forced to back before him.

"Insolent clod!" exclaimed Bellecour, with an angry laugh and a
sharp, downward blow of the butt of his whip upon the peasant's head.
Charlot's hand grew nerveless and released the bridle as he sank
stunned to the ground. Bellecour touched his horse with the spur
and rode over the prostrate fellow with no more concern than had he
been a dog's carcase. "Blaise, see to the girl," he called over his
shoulder, adding to his company: "Come, messieurs, we have wasted
time enough."

Not a hand was raised to stay him, not a word of protest uttered,
as the nobles rode by, laughing, and chatting among themselves, with
the utmost unconcern of the tragedy that was being enacted.

Like a flock of frightened sheep the peasants stood huddled together
and watched them go. In the same inaction - for all that not a
little grief was blent with the terror on their countenances - they
stood by and allowed Blaise to lift the half-swooning girl to the
withers of his horse. No reply had they to the coarse jest with
which he and his fellow-servant rode off. But La Boulaye, who, from