Soon these outcries became perfectly frantic, when, through the broken windows, the assailants perceived women running in terror, some with children in their arms, and others raising their hands to heaven, calling aloud for help; whilst a few, bolder than the rest, leaned out of the windows, and tried to fasten the outside blinds.

“There come the ants out of their holes!” cried Ciboule, stooping to pick up a stone.  “We must have a fling at them for luck!” The stone, hurled by the steady, masculine hand of the virago, went straight to its mark, and struck an unfortunate woman who was trying to close one of the shutters.

“Hit in the white!” cried the hideous creature.

“Well done, Ciboule!—­you’ve rapped her coker-nut!” cried a voice.

“Ciboule forever!”

“Come out, you Devourers, if you dare!”

“They have said a hundred times, that the neighbors were too cowardly even to come and look at their house,” squealed the little man with the ferret’s face.

“And now they show the white feather!”

“If they will not come out,” cried the quarryman, in voice of thunder, “let us smoke them out!”

“Yes, yes!”

“Let’s break open the door!”

“We are sure to find them!”

“Come on! come on!”

The crowd, with the quarryman at their head, and Ciboule not far from him, brandishing a stick, advanced tumultously towards one of the great doors.  The ground shook beneath the rapid tread of the mob, which had now ceased shouting; but the confused, and, as it were, subterraneous noise, sounded even more ominous than those savage outcries.  The Wolves soon arrived opposite the massive oaken door.  At the moment the blaster raised a sledgehammer, the door opened suddenly.  Some of the most determined of the assailants were about to rush in at this entrance; but the quarryman stepped back, extending his arm as if to moderate their ardor and impose silence.  Then his followers gathered round him.

The half-open door discovered a party of workmen, unfortunately by no means numerous, but with countenances full of resolution.  They had armed themselves hastily with forks, iron bars, and clubs.  Agricola, who was their leader, held in his hand a heavy sledge-hammer.  The young workman was very pale; but the fire of his eye, his menacing look, and the intrepid assurance of his bearing, showed that his father’s blood boiled in his veins, and that in such a struggle he might become fear-inspiring.  Yet he succeeded in restraining himself, and challenged the quarryman, in a firm voice:  “What do you want?”

“A fight!” thundered the blaster.

“Yes, yes! a fight!” repeated the crowd.

“Silence, my Wolves!” cried the quarryman, as he turned round, and stretched forth his large hand towards the multitude.  Then addressing Agricola, he said:  “The Wolves have come to ask for a fight.”

“With whom?”