The soldier rolled his eyes, which had a wicked expression, but he drank, nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint Anthony held his head to the great delight of his companions.

The Norman, red as a tomato, his eyes ablaze, filled up the glasses and clinked, saying:  “Here’s to you!”.  And the Prussian, without speaking a word, poured down one after another glassfuls of cognac.

It was a contest, a battle, a revenge!  Who would drink the most, nom d’un nom!  They could neither of them stand any more when the liter was emptied.  But neither was conquered.  They were tied, that was all.  They would have to begin again the next day.

They went out staggering and started for home, walking beside the dung cart which was drawn along slowly by two horses.

Snow began to fall and the moonless night was sadly lighted by this dead whiteness on the plain.  The men began to feel the cold, and this aggravated their intoxication.  Saint Anthony, annoyed at not being the victor, amused himself by shoving his companion so as to make him fall over into the ditch.  The other would dodge backwards, and each time he did he uttered some German expression in an angry tone, which made the peasant roar with laughter.  Finally the Prussian lost his temper, and just as Anthony was rolling towards him he responded with such a terrific blow with his fist that the Colossus staggered.

Then, excited by the brandy, the old man seized the pugilist round the waist, shook him for a few moments as he would have done with a little child, and pitched him at random to the other side of the road.  Then, satisfied with this piece of work, he crossed his arms and began to laugh afresh.

But the soldier picked himself up in a hurry, his head bare, his helmet having rolled off, and drawing his sword he rushed over to Father Anthony.

When he saw him coming the peasant seized his whip by the top of the handle, his big holly wood whip, straight, strong and supple as the sinew of an ox.

The Prussian approached, his head down, making a lunge with his sword, sure of killing his adversary.  But the old fellow, squarely hitting the blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it aside, and with the butt end of the whip struck the soldier a sharp blow on the temple and he fell to the ground.

Then he, gazed aghast, stupefied with amazement, at the body, twitching convulsively at first and then lying prone and motionless.  He bent over it, turned it on its back, and gazed at it for some time.  The man’s eyes were closed, and blood trickled from a wound at the side of his forehead.  Although it was dark, Father Anthony could distinguish the bloodstain on the white snow.

He remained there, at his wit’s end, while his cart continued slowly on its way.