It was as the little fellow said, for half a dozen cows were dreamily munching grass, while a sour-looking man was seated upon a stool. Dr Martin walked up at once, the man being so intent upon the milking that he did not raise his head till the Doctor spoke, when he started so violently that he nearly overset the pail.
“Who are you? What is it?” he cried.
“We are travellers, and hungry,” replied the Doctor, in French. “Will you sell us some—”
He got no farther.
“Here, I know you, sir. You are the English spy, old Martin’s friend, who came to live with him, and that is the boy. I know you and what you have done. You have brought the English here to take the place.”
“Indeed you wrong me, sir,” cried the Doctor, humbly. “It is a mistake.”
“A mistake,” cried the man, furiously. “You’ll soon find out that it is, for you and the English cub. Our soldiers were here looking for you last night. I know where they are now.”
“I cannot help it,” said the Doctor, sadly. “The poor boy is starving; he has eaten nothing since breakfast yesterday. I will pay you well, sir, for all you sell me.”
“I sell to a spy? Never a bit nor a drop.”
He shouted his words in the Canadian-French patois, opening a big knife in a threatening manner.