r of
arms like a prize-fighter's; "this reminds me of my boyish days and the
slaughter-house. You shall see how I handle a knife! _Nom de nom!_ I
wish I was at it. The knife, lad! the knife! That's it; I see you know
your trade. This is a blade! Who will have it? _Tonnerre!_ with a tool
like this I could face a wild bull."

And the Chourineur brandished his knife,--his eyes began to fill with
blood; the beast was regaining the mastery; the instinct and thirst for
blood reappeared in all the fullness of their fearful predominance.

The butchery was in the yard,--a vaulted, dark place, paved with stones,
and lighted by a small, narrow opening at the top.

The man drove one of the sheep to the door.

"Shall I fasten him to the ring, master?"

"Fasten him! _Tonnerre!_ and I with my knees at liberty? Oh, no; I will
hold him here as fast as if in a vice. Give me the beast, and go back to
the shop."

The journeyman obeyed. Rodolph was left alone with the Chourineur, and
watched him attentively, almost anxiously.

"Now, then, to work!" said he.

"Oh, I sha'n't be long. _Tonnerre!_ you shall see how I handle a knife!
My hands burn, and I have a singing in my ears; my temples beat, as they
used when I was going to 'see red.' Come here, thou--Ah, _Madelon!_ let
me stab you dead!"

Then his eyes sparkled with a fierce delight, and, no longer conscious
of the presence of Rodolph, the Chourineur lifted the sheep without an
effort; with one spring he carried it off as a wolf would do, bounding
towards his lair with his prey.

Rodolph followed him, and leaned on one of the wings of the door, which
he closed. The butchery was dark; one strong ray of light, falling
straight down, lighted up, _a la Rembrandt_, the rugged features of the
Chourineur, his light hair, and his red whiskers. Stooping low, holding
in his teeth a long knife, which glittered in the "darkness visible," he
drew the sheep between his legs, and, when he had adjusted it, took it
by the head, stretched out its neck, and cut its throat.

At the instant when the sheep felt the keen blade, it gave one gentle,
low, and pitiful bleat, and, raising its dying eyes to the Chourineur,
two spurts of blood jetted forth into the face of its slayer. The cry,
the look, the blood that spouted out, made a fearful impression on the
man. His knife fell from his hands; his features grew livid, contracted,
and horrible, beneath the blood that covered them; his eyes expanded,