VIII
The two adversaries repaired to the adjoining field and chose for their goal the door of the cemetery of Condé.[1] Belzébuth teed a ball on a frozen heap, after which he said, according to custom:
"From here, as you lie, in how many turns of three strokes will you run in?"
"In two," replied the great golfer.
And his adversary was not a little surprised, for from there to the cemetery was nearly a quarter of a league.
"But how shall we see the ball?" continued the wheelwright.
"True!" said Belzébuth.
He touched the ball with his club, and it shone suddenly in the dark like an immense glowworm.
"Fore!" cried Roger.
He hit the ball with the head of his club, and it rose to the sky like a star going to rejoin its sisters. In three strokes it crossed three-quarters of the distance.
"That is good!" said Belzébuth, whose astonishment redoubled. "My turn to play now!"[2]
With one stroke of the club he drove the ball over the roofs of Coq nearly to Maison Blanche, half a league away. The blow was so violent that the iron struck fire against a pebble.
"Good St. Antony! I am lost, unless you come to my aid," murmured the wheelwright of Coq.
[211]
