“And suppose I do not wish to go.”
“I will kill you.”
The Bohemian shrugged his shoulders.
“You will not kill me, watchman, and I will remain.”
Peyrou raised his pistol, and exclaimed: “Take care!”
“Would you kill a defenceless man, who has never done you any harm? I defy you,” said the vagabond, without moving from the spot.
The watchman dropped his arm; he revolted at the thought of murder. He replaced his pistol in his belt, and walked back and forth in violent agitation. He found himself in a singular position,—he could not rid himself of this persistent villain by fear or force; he must then resolve to pass the night on guard.
He resigned himself to this last alternative, hoping that next day some one might appear, and he would be able to rid himself of the Bohemian.
“Very well, let it be,” said he, with a forced smile. “Although I have not invited you to be my companion, we will pass the night by the side of each other.”
“And you will not repent it, watchman. I am not a sailor, but I have a telescope. If the chebec annoys you, I will assist you in watching it.”