I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere." "Well," said the other, "it rather depends what sort of person you mean." "Well, for instance," said Syme, "he could never convert that person," and he pointed straight in front of him.
They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality.

Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet.

His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad.

The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.
"Mr.Syme is saying," called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, "that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist." "Mr.Syme is right enough there," answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, "if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend.

But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy." "He looks poor," said Dr.Bull doubtfully.
"Quite so," said the Colonel; "that is why he is rich." "I have an idea," called out Dr.Bull suddenly; "how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart?
Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind." "Oh, give him anything!" said Syme eagerly.