I even noticed a sudden softening of his
features and voice, as if he were sorry for his severity.
"Mauprat," he said, crossing his arms on his breast and looking at me
fixedly, "you have now been punished; you have now been insulted,
my fine gentleman; that is enough for me. As you see, I might easily
prevent you from ever harming me by stopping your breath with a touch of
my finger, and burying you under the stone at my door. Who would think
of coming to Gaffer Patience to look for this fine child of noble blood?
But, as you may also see, I am not fond of vengeance; at the first
cry of pain that escaped you, I stopped. No; I don't like to cause
suffering; I'm not a Mauprat. Still, it was well for you to learn by
experience what is to be a victim. May this disgust you of the hangman's
trade, which had been handed down from father to son in your family.
Good-evening! You can go now; I no longer bear you malice; the justice
of God is satisfied. You can tell your uncles to put me on their
gridiron; they will have a tough morsel to eat; and they will swallow
flesh that will come to life again in their gullets and choke them."
Then he picked up the dead owl, and looking at it sadly:
"A peasant's child would not have done this," he said. "This is sport
for gentle blood."
As he retired to his door he gave utterance to an exclamation which
escaped him only on solemn occasions, and from which he derived his
curious surname:
"Patience, patience!" he cried.
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