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"
It
is
n't
French
!
"
cried
Peter
.
"
What
is
it
,
then
?
"
asked
more
than
one
voice
.
The
crowd
fell
back
a
little
to
see
who
had
spoken
,
and
Peter
pressed
forward
,
so
that
when
the
crowd
closed
up
again
he
was
in
the
front
rank
.
"
I
do
n't
know
what
it
is
,
"
said
Peter
,
"
but
it
is
n't
French
.
I
know
that
.
"
Then
he
saw
what
it
was
that
the
crowd
had
for
its
centre
.
It
was
a
man
--
the
man
,
Peter
did
not
doubt
,
who
had
spoken
in
that
strange
tongue
.
A
man
with
long
hair
and
wild
eyes
,
with
shabby
clothes
of
a
cut
Peter
had
not
seen
before
--
a
man
whose
hands
and
lips
trembled
,
and
who
spoke
again
as
his
eyes
fell
on
Peter
.
"
No
,
it
's
not
French
,
"
said
Peter
.
"
Try
him
with
French
if
you
know
so
much
about
it
,
"
said
the
farmer-man
.
"
Parlay
voo
Frongsay
?
"
began
Peter
,
boldly
,
and
the
next
moment
the
crowd
recoiled
again
,
for
the
man
with
the
wild
eyes
had
left
leaning
against
the
wall
,
and
had
sprung
forward
and
caught
Peter
's
hands
,
and
begun
to
pour
forth
a
flood
of
words
which
,
though
he
could
not
understand
a
word
of
them
,
Peter
knew
the
sound
of
.
"
There
!
"
said
he
,
and
turned
,
his
hands
still
clasped
in
the
hands
of
the
strange
shabby
figure
,
to
throw
a
glance
of
triumph
at
the
crowd
;
"
there
;
THAT
'S
French
.
"
"
What
does
he
say
?
"
"
I
do
n't
know
.
"
Peter
was
obliged
to
own
it
.
