Pomfrette stepped swiftly in front of the mealman.

There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his hair was disordered, his eyes afire.
"Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited.

"Duclosse," called Garotte warningly, "remember!" Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there.

That and Garotte's words gave him courage.

He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning.
"Good-bye-leper," he answered.
Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from a loose corner.