"Good-morning, Galope-Chopine," said Marche-a-Terre, gravely.
"Good-morning, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre," replied the other, humbly.
"Will you come in and drink a drop? I've some cold buckwheat cake and
fresh-made butter."
"That's not to be refused, cousin," said Pille-Miche.
The two Chouans entered the cottage. So far there was nothing alarming
for the master of the house, who hastened to fill three beakers from
his huge cask of cider, while Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, sitting
on the polished benches on each side of the long table, cut the cake
and spread it with the rich yellow butter from which the milk spurted
as the knife smoothed it. Galope-Chopine placed the beakers full of
frothing cider before his guests, and the three Chouans began to eat;
but from time to time the master of the house cast side-long glances
at Marche-a-Terre as he drank his cider.
"Lend me your snuff-box," said Marche-a-Terre to Pille-Miche.
Having shaken several pinches into the palm of his hand the Breton
inhaled the tobacco like a man who is making ready for serious
business.
"It is cold," said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the upper half of the
door.
The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only through the
little window, and feebly lighted the room and the two seats; the
fire, however, gave out a ruddy glow.
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