As he had foreseen, the man was buried beneath the manure. Anthony evened
it down with his fork, which he stuck in the ground beside it. He called
his stableman, told him to put up the horses, and went to his room.

He went to bed, still thinking of what he had best do, but no ideas came
to him. His apprehension increased in the quiet of his room. They would
shoot him! He was bathed in perspiration from fear, his teeth chattered,
he rose shivering, not being able to stay in bed.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, took the bottle of brandy from the
sideboard and carried it upstairs. He drank two large glasses, one after
another, adding a fresh intoxication to the late one, without quieting
his mental anguish. He had done a pretty stroke of work, nom de Dieu,
idiot!

He paced up and down, trying to think of some stratagem, some
explanations, some cunning trick, and from time to time he rinsed his
mouth with a swallow of "fil en dix" to give him courage.

But no ideas came to him, not one.

Towards midnight his watch dog, a kind of cross wolf called "Devorant,"
began to howl frantically. Father Anthony shuddered to the marrow of his
bones, and each time the beast began his long and lugubrious wail the old
man's skin turned to goose flesh.

He had sunk into a chair, his legs weak, stupefied, done up, waiting
anxiously for "Devorant" to set up another howl, and starting
convulsively from nervousness caused by terror.