“No,” he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again intrenching himself behind one of his former phrases; “I will not cross the door.”

I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on his face with unaffected shame; he was smiling pitifully and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected schoolboy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked him what I was to do.

“I don’t know,” he said; “I will not cross the door.”

Here was the Beast of Gévaudan, and no mistake.

“Sir,” said I, with my most commanding manners, “you are a coward.”

And with that I turned my back upon the family party, who hastened to retire within their fortifications; and the famous door was closed again, but not till I had overheard the sound of laughter. Filia barbara pater barbarior. Let me say it in the plural: the Beasts of Gévaudan.