For he had just got Martel's head comfortably under his left arm, and was paying him out in full for all he had made Rachel Carre suffer, when the bump of his fall put an end to it.
The following night he fell asleep at once, tired with a long day's work in the fields.

He woke with a start about midnight, with the impression of a sound in his ears, and lay listening doubtfully.

Then he perceived that his ears had not deceived him.

There was someone in the room,--or something,--and for a moment all the superstitions among which he had been bred crawled in his back hair and held his breath.
Then a hand dropped out of the darkness and touched his shoulder, and he sprang at the touch like a coiled spring.
"Diable!" It was Martel's voice and usual exclamation, and in a moment Hamon had him by the throat and they were whirling over the floor, upsetting the table and scattering the chairs, and George Hamon's heart was beating like a merry drum at feel of his enemy in the flesh.
But wrestling blindly in a dark room did not satisfy him.

That which was in him craved more.