‘A tomtit’s nest!’ exclaimed Brother Archangias.  ’Wait a bit! wait a bit!’

Thereupon he stepped aside, picked a clod of earth off a grave and flung it into the brambles.  But he missed the nest.  Another clod, however, more skilfully thrown upset the frail cradle, and precipitated the fledglings into the torrent below.

‘Now, perhaps,’ he continued, clapping his hands to shake off the earth that soiled them, ’you won’t come roaming here any more, like a heathen; the dead will pull your feet at night if you go walking over them again.’

Vincent, who had laughed at seeing the nest dive into the stream, looked round him and shrugged his shoulders like one of strong mind.

‘Oh, I’m not afraid,’ he said.  ‘Dead folk don’t stir.’

The graveyard, in truth, was not a place to inspire fear.  It was a barren piece of ground whose narrow paths were smothered by rank weeds.  Here and there the soil was bossy with mounds.  A single tombstone, that of Abbe Caffin, brand-new and upright, could be perceived in the centre of the ground.  Save this, all around there were only broken fragments of crosses, withered tufts of box, and old slabs split and moss-eaten.  There were not two burials a year.  Death seemed to make no dwelling in that waste spot, whither La Teuse came every evening to fill her apron with grass for Desiree’s rabbits.  A gigantic cypress tree, standing near the gate, alone cast shadow upon the desert field.  This cypress, a landmark visible for nine miles around, was known to the whole countryside as the Solitaire.

‘It’s full of lizards,’ added Vincent, looking at the cracks of the church-wall.  ‘One could have a fine lark—­’

But he sprang out with a bound on seeing the Brother lift his foot.  The latter proceeded to call the priest’s attention to the dilapidated state of the gate, which was not only eaten up with rust, but had one hinge off, and the lock broken.

‘It ought to be repaired,’ said he.

Abbe Mouret smiled, but made no reply.  Addressing Vincent, who was romping with the dog:  ‘I say, my boy,’ he asked, ’do you know where old Bambousse is at work this morning?’

The lad glanced towards the horizon.  ’He must be at his Olivettes field now,’ he answered, pointing towards the left.  ’But Voriau will show your reverence the way.  He’s sure to know where his master is.’  And he clapped his hands and called:  ‘Hie!  Voriau! hie!’

The big black dog paused a moment, wagging his tail, and seeking to read the urchin’s eyes.  Then, barking joyfully, he set off down the slope to the village.  Abbe Mouret and Brother Archangias followed him, chatting.  A hundred yards further Vincent surreptitiously bolted, and again glided up towards the church, keeping a watchful eye upon them, and ready to dart behind a bush if they should look round.  With adder-like suppleness, he once more glided into the graveyard, that paradise full of lizards, nests, and flowers.