“Well! why do you hesitate?”

“First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a movement.”

“I tell you they are.”

“He—­tells you—­they are,” said Sleepinbuff, stammering “and I (hic!) affirm it.  Forward!  March!”

“That’s not enough,” replied Olivier.  “Besides, we have reflected upon it.  For a week the factory was divided.  Even yesterday the discussion was too warm to be pleasant.  But this morning Father Simon called to him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to one mind.  We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall see.”

“Is that your final word?”

“It is our last word.”

“Silence!” cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing himself on his tottering legs.  “It is like the noise of a crowd not far off.”  A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.

“What is that?” said Olivier, in surprise.

“Now,” replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, “I remember the host told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory.  If you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy’s other workmen, as I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you, instead of against you.”

“This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy’s workmen against the other!” cried Olivier; “you hoped that we should make common cause with these people against the factory, and that—­”

The young man had not time to finish.  A terrible outburst of shouts, howls, and hisses shook the tavern.  At the same instant the door was abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the chamber, exclaiming:  “Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy’s factory?”

“I do,” said Olivier.

“Then you are lost.  Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are Devourers here from M. Hardy’s, and offering them battle—­unless the Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side.”

“It was a trap, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Olivier, looking at Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; “if my mates had come, we were all to be let in.”

“I lay a trap, Olivier?” stammered Jacques Rennepont.  “Never!”

“Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!” cried the angry crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.

“Come!” exclaimed the host.  Without giving Olivier time to answer, he seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no very great height from the ground, he said to him:  “Make your escape by this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time.”

As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror: 

“Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do?  A minute more, and you are lost.  Do you not hear them?  They have entered the yard; they are coming up.”