"Will your Honor sign a warrant?" he asked.
"A warrant? What warrant?" queried the worthy squire, who of a truth, was falling from puzzlement to such absolute bewilderment that he felt literally as if his head would burst with the weight of so much mystery and with the knowledge of such dire infamy.
"I think that the scoundrel is cleverer than we thought, your Honor," continued the petty constable, "we must not allow him to escape."
"I am quite bewildered," murmured the squire. "What is the warrant for?"
"For the apprehension of the man whom the folk about here called the Prince of Orléans. I can set the watches on the go this very night, nay! they shall scour the countryside to some purpose—the murderer cannot be very far, we know that he is dressed in the smith's clothes, we'll get him soon enough, but he may have friends. . . ."
"Friends?"
"He may have been a real prince, your Honor," said Pyot with a laugh, which contradicted his own suggestion.
"Aye! aye! . . . Mayhap!"
"He may have powerful friends . . . or such as would resist the watches . . . resist us, mayhap . . . a warrant would be useful. . . ."
"Aye! aye! you are right, constable," said Boatfield, still a little bewildered, "do you come along to Sarre with me, I'll give you a warrant this very night. Have you a horse here?"