‘Mr. Tone!’ said Sir George, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘Ay, sir, Wolfe Tone; there is no need of secrecy here; Wolfe Tone, your old college acquaintance in former times, but now chef de brigade in the service of France.’
‘This is a very unexpected, a very unhappy meeting, Mr. Tone,’ said Hill feelingly; ‘I sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory of our past acquaintance. My duty gives me no alternative.’
‘Your duty, or I mistake much, can have no concern with me, sir,’ cried Tone, in a more excited voice.
‘I ask for nothing better than to be sure of this, Mr. Tone,’ said Sir George, moving slowly towards the door.
‘You would treat me like an émigré rentré? cried Tone passionately, ‘but I am a French subject and a French officer!’
‘I shall be well satisfied if others take the same view of your case, I assure you,’ said Hill, as he gained the door.
‘You ‘ll not find me unprepared for either event, sir,’ rejoined Tone, following him out of the room, and banging the door angrily behind him.
For a moment or two the noise of voices was heard from without, and several of the guests, English and French, rose from the table, eagerly inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an explanation of the scene, when suddenly the door was flung wide open, and Tone appeared between two policemen, his coat off, and his wrists inclosed in handcuffs.
‘Look here, comrades,’ he cried in French; ‘this is another specimen of English politeness and hospitality. After all,’ added he, with a bitter laugh, ‘they have no designation in all their heraldry as honourable as these fetters, when worn for the cause of freedom! Good-bye, comrades; we may never meet again, but don’t forget how we parted.’