Roque, naturally, had not gone by the road. He could not suffer his three children to be even a moment out of his sight. He passed to and fro between the rear-guard and the van, a poor, restless, tormented, and tormenting spirit. On his lips hung in perpetual prayer, that Toto should put on his hat lest he should catch a sun-stroke, that Angèle should observe the stones in her path lest she should strike her foot against them.
At this moment, he, his sister, and the boys formed a circle round some object on the ground, and his agitated “Mais voyons, ne fais pas ca, Eugène!” had called forth his wife’s remark.
For Eugène, armed with a long twig, was tickling a small snake of a livid, brownish-green, which lay immobile on the ground.
“It’s only a slow-worm, papa, and it’s dead anyhow. See
