Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and piercing:  “Battle to the Devourers!”

“Fly, Olivier!” cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.

Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room, which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open with a frightful crash.

“Here they are!” cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm.  Then, running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for, with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.

The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in the yard and on the staircase.  Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them were armed with long sticks.  A blaster, of Herculean strength and stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the movements.  With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance, he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder: 

“Where are the Devourers?—­the Wolves will eat ’em up!”

The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying:  “There is no one here, my friends—­no one.  Look for yourselves.”

“It is true,” said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the room; “where are they, then?  We were told there were a dozen of them here.  They should have marched with us against the factory, or there’d ’a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!”

“If they have not come,” said another, “they will come.  Let’s wait.”

“Yes, yes; we will wait for them.”

“We will look close at each other.”

“If the Wolves want to see the Devourers,” said Morok, “why not go and howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists?  At the first howl of the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle.”

“They will give you—­battle,” repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.

“Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.

“Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!” cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced towards Morok.

A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers?”

“It would be the first time!”

“Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”

“We are tired of all this.  Why should we be so miserable, and they so well off?”