"You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place by the mistress of this manor."
"There is no mistress of this manor."
"Madame Racine dismissed you."
"And I dismissed Madame Racine," answered the man with a sneer.
"You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, I have power to give you summary punishment."
"You haven’t power to do anything at all, M’sieu’!"
The Seigneur started. He thought the remark had reference to his physical disability. His fingers itched to take the creature by the throat, and choke the tongue from his mouth. Before he could speak, the man continued with a half-drunken grimace:
"You, with your tributes, and your courts, and your body-guards! Bah! You’d have a gibbet if you could, wouldn’t you? You with your rebellion and your tin-pot honours! A puling baby could conspire as well as you. And all the world laughing at you—v’là!"
"Get out of this room and take your feet from my manor, Tardif," said the Seigneur with a deadly quietness, "or it will be the worse for you."
"Your Manor—pish!" The man laughed a hateful laugh. "Your manor? You haven’t any manor. You haven’t anything but what you carry on your back."
A flush passed swiftly over the Seigneur’s face, then left it cold and white, and the eyes shone fiery in his head. He felt some shameful meaning in the man’s words, beyond this gross reference to his deformity.
"I am Seigneur of this manor, and you have taken wages from me, and eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and"
