. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. Folks don’t like ’em. You understand me, I’m sure. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. Death belongs to God, young man. Before Marthe will become impatient and come out. .
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