But as Harrod carried the boy down-stairs, the other officers gathered round Clark, expostulating, and Kenton remarked:
“Cunnel, the little cuss hev gone crazy, you may bet. He never acted so afore, and it’s b’en a tearin’ hot day. I suspicion he’s b’en sun-struck.”
“Drunk, more likely,” said Helm, in a tone of contempt. “Those boys are not fit to trust with a bottle of applejack. They go cracked in five minutes.”
“Let it pass, gentlemen,” said Clark, impatiently. “Remember we have business to do, and this priest and his friends are at the gate by this time. I’ll attend to that boy in due time. Now get ready to receive this deputation.”
They settled themselves in chairs round the room, and soon Bill Harrod lumbered in, escorting father Gibault and five venerable citizens, who trembled as if their last hour had come, and remained near the door, bowing confusedly, and looking among the ragged, dirty figures before them as if doubting the evidence of their senses.
At last the priest faltered out to Harrod:
“Please, good monsieur, will you not tell me which of these honorable gentlemen is your leader?”
“That thar man in the big cheer, with the laced hat,” said Harrod, pointing with his thumb at Clark, whose battered head-covering had once been laced. “Spit out what you’ve got to say, lively.”