There were men too, half-a-dozen or so standing at the
doors of the stables, while others leaned from the windows. One
or two lanthorns just kindled glimmered here and there in the
semi-darkness; and in a corner two smiths were shoeing a horse.
We were turning from all this to go in, when we heard Jean's
voice raised in altercation, and thinking our rustic servant had
fallen into trouble, we walked across to the stables near which
he and the horses were still lingering. "Well, what is it?" I
said sharply.
"They say that there is no room for the horses," Jean answered
querulously, scratching his head; half sullen, half cowed, a
country servant all over.
"And there is not!" cried the foremost of the gang about the
door, hastening to confront us in turn. His tone was insolent,
and it needed but half an eye to see that his fellows were
inclined to back him up. He stuck his arms akimbo and faced us
with an impudent smile. A lanthorn on the ground beside him
throwing an uncertain light on the group, I saw that they all
wore the same badge.
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