Gaboriant, the eldest of the girls, aged eighteen, who took upon herself to be spokesman for the rest.
"Because I shall marry the prettiest," was the answer.
"Ah!" said Jeanne jokingly; "that is if she will have you, which is not very likely, as we none of us know you, or anything about you."
"I am the son of a priest," replied the boy curtly.
"Is that why you look so dingy and black?"
"No, I am dark-coloured, because I wear a wolf-skin sometimes."
"A wolf-skin!" echoed the girl; "and pray who gave it you?"
"One called Pierre Labourant."
"There is no man of that name hereabouts. Where does he live?"
A scream of laughter mingled with howls, and breaking into strange gulping bursts of fiendlike merriment from the strange boy.
The little girls recoiled, and the youngest took refuge behind Jeanne.
"Do you want to know Pierre Labourant, lass? Hey, he is a man with an iron chain about his neck, which he is ever engaged in gnawing. Do you want to
