Black Marianne alone received him kindly; her first question was: 

“Have you heard nothing of my John?” But he could give her no information.

In a double sense Damie was doomed to be scratched that day; for that very evening Barefoot had the barber come and shave off his wild beard, and give him the smooth face that was the fashion of the country.

The next morning Damie was summoned to the Courthouse; and inasmuch as he trembled at the summons, he knew not why, Barefoot promised to accompany him.  And that was good, though it was not of much use; for the Council declared to Damie that he was to be sent away from the place, that he had no right to remain there, perhaps to become a burden on the community once more.

All the members were astonished when Barefoot answered “Yes, you can send him away—­but do you know when?  When you can go out to the churchyard, where our father and mother lie buried, and say to them:  ‘Up, go away with your child!’ Then you can send him away.  No one can be sent away from the place where his parents are buried; for he is more than at home there.  And if it is written a thousand times in your books there, and a thousand times again,”—­and here she pointed to the bound government registers,—­“and wherever else it may be written, it cannot be done, and you cannot do it.”

One of the councilors whispered to the schoolmaster: 

“Barefoot has learned to talk in that way from nobody else but Black Marianne.”

And the sexton leaned over to the magistrate and said: 

“Why do you allow the Cinderella to make such an outcry?  Ring for the gendarme and have him shut her up in the madhouse.”

But the magistrate only smiled, and explained that the community had rid itself of all burdens that could ever accrue to it through Damie by paying the greater part of his passage money.

“But where is his home now?” asked Barefoot.

“Wherever they will receive him, but not here—­at present nowhere.”

“Yes, I have no home,” said Damie, who almost enjoyed being made more and more unhappy; for now nobody could deny that he was the most unfortunate person in the world.

Barefoot continued to fight, but she soon saw that nothing could be done; the law was against her.  She now declared that she would work her fingers to the bone rather than take anything more from the parish, either for herself or for her brother; and she promised to pay back all that had been received.

“Shall I put that down on the minutes?” asked the clerk of those who sat around.  And Barefoot replied: 

“Yes, put it down; for with you nothing counts except what’s written.”

Barefoot then put her signature to the entry.  When this was done, it was announced that Damie, as a stranger, had permission to remain in the village for three days, but that if within that time he had not found some means of subsistence, he would be sent away, and in case of necessity, would be removed by force across the frontier.