“You are Walter Gerard, I presume,” said the serjeant, “six foot two without shoes.”
“Whoever I may he,” he replied, “I presume you will produce your warrant, friend, before you touch me.”
“‘Tis here. We want five of you, named herein, and all others that may happen to be found in your company.”
“I shall obey the warrant,” said Gerard after he had examined it; “but this maiden, my daughter, knows nothing of this meeting or its purpose. She has but just arrived, and how she traced me I know not. You will let me recover her, and then permit her to depart.”
“Can’t let no one out of my sight found in this room.”
“But she is innocent, even if we were guilty; she could be nothing else but innocent, for she knows nothing of this meeting and its business, both of which I am prepared at the right time and place to vindicate. She entered this room a moment only before yourself, entered and swooned.”
“Can’t help that; must take her; she can tell the magistrate anything she likes, and he must decide.”
“Why you are not afraid of a young girl?”
“I am afraid of nothing; but I must do my duty. Come we have no time for talk. I must take you both.”
“By G—d you shall not take her;” and letting go her hand, Gerard advanced before her and assumed a position of defence. “You know, I find, my height: my strength does not shame my stature! Look to yourself. Advance and touch this maiden, and I will fell you and your minions like oxen at their pasture.”