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"My good son," said the clerk with unction to the slave, "we must accept with resignation the trials that heaven sends us." "Will you have done!" cried the count again smiting the table with the handle of his scramasax. "We have had words enough take your choice either your knees or your throat for an extinguisher! Do you hesitate " "No, no, seigneur, I obey "
But the count, who, with both his hands upon his paunch swollen with food and drink, was roaring with laughter and, like the rest of the leudes, shook with mirth, again smote the table violently with the handle of his scramasax. The slave understood the signal.
The boisterous mirthfulness of the leudes is at its height. Neroweg wishes to speak. Three times he strikes on the table with the handle of his scramasax, the name given by the barbarians to the knife used at table, and habitually worn at the warrior's belt. Silence, or some degree of silence ensues. The count is to speak.
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