"Who asked for me?" demanded Billet, stopping on the threshold and looking round.
"Me," replied a flute-like voice behind him.
"Turning, the yeoman beheld the police-agent and his two myrmidons.
"How now? what do you want?" he snarled, making three steps backwards.
"Next to nothing, dear Master Billet," replied the unctuous speaker: "we have to make a search in your premises, that is all."
"A search, hey?" repeated Billet, glancing at his gun, on hooks over the mantelpiece. "Since we had a National Assembly," he said, "I thought citizens were no longer exposed to proceedings which smack of another age and style of things. What do you want with a peaceable and loyal man?"
Policemen are alike all the world over in their never answering questions of their victims; some bewail them while clapping on the iron cuffs, searching them or pinioning; they are the most dangerous as they appear to be the best. The fellow who descended on Farmer Billet was of the hypocritical school, those who have a tear for those they overhaul, but they never let their hands be idle to dash away the tear.
Uttering a sigh, this man waved his hand to his acolytes, who went up to Billet. He jumped back and reached out for his musket.
But his hand was turned aside from the doubly dangerous weapon to him who made use of it and her whose pair of slight hands was strong with terror and mighty with entreaty.
It was Catherine who had rushed to the spot in time to save her father from the crime of rebellion to justice.