“Who can it be? Who can it be, Peg?” she said, anxiously and almost in a whisper. “Robbers, ha!”
She started up with a sharp exclamation, and pointed with her finger to a sash in the upper part of the door, from which the curtain had been partly drawn.
“Peg! Peg!” she cried, in a voice that was sharp with spite, yet shook with terror,—“Peg, it’s a man! do you see? If he breaks in, leap on him and scratch his eyes out. Do you hear? tear him to pieces, Peg!”
The door was slightly shaken, at which the cat arched her back and made ready for a spring.
Again the door was tried, and a knock followed.
Peg gathered herself up, and gave out a sharp hiss, which mingled with the shrill voice of the old woman, as the latter called out:
“Who’s there? What do you want? You can’t come in here. I’m a lone woman, and poor, very poor. Go away, I tell you!”
“Open the door, madame,” answered a man’s voice, “open the door. It is your husband’s son!”
“What? what? Peg, do you hear that? Hush!”
“Open the door, Madame De Marke. I must speak with you. Surely you recognize my voice.”