As I had calculated, this insult brought it. My prod had struck the raw. With a choking curse the fellow sprang at me, naked handed, blind in his bull strength.
I dropped one foot to the rear, met and stopped the rush by planting my left fist in his face, then gave him my right under his jaw, with the full thrust of my body, from the foot up. It was a beautiful trick, learned of an English prisoner at Montreal, who had trained me all one winter in the fistic art of his countrymen. My impetuous antagonist went backward over the anvil, and seemed in small haste to pick himself up. The spectators gaped at the strange tactics; and Nicole, as I bade him good-by, chuckled:
“There’ll be trouble for this somewhere, Master Paul! Watch out sharp—and don’t go ‘round o’ nights without taking me along. Le Fûret is not nicknamed ‘The Ferret’ for nothing!”
“All right, my friend,” said I; “when I want a guard I’ll send for you.”
I went off toward Father Fafard’s, pleased with myself, pleased with the English captain who had taught me such a useful accomplishment, and pleased, I confess, with Vaurin’s minion for having afforded me such a fair chance to display it.
The incident at the forge, as it seemed to me, was one to scatter effectually any rumours of my connection with Vaurin, and I congratulated myself most heartily upon it. It could not fail, I thought, to look well in Yvonne’s eyes. It confirmed me in my resolve to go to Canard that afternoon, and perhaps to Pereau, getting my uncle’s business off my hands, and not returning to De Lamourie Place till I might be sure that the circumstances had been heard and well digested there. Having this course settled in my mind, I passed the church, entered the gate between its flowering lilac-bushes, and hastened up the narrow path to Father Fafard’s door. Ere I could reach it the good priest stood upon his threshold to greet me, both hands out, his kind grey eyes half closed by the crowding smiles that creased his round and ruddy face.
“My boy!” he said. “I have looked for you all the morning. Why didn’t you come to me last night?”
His voice, big, yet low and soft, had ever quaintly reminded me of a ripe apple in its mellow firmness.
Both hands in his, I answered, bantering him: