“What if I refuse?” said my father in the same tongue.
“If you refuse it will be broken down—directly.”
“Is it the war?” said my father mockingly.
“It is the war,” was the reply. “Open, and no harm will be done to you. Resist, and there will be no quarter. Is it surrender?”
“Monsieur forgets that he is talking to an English officer,” said my father. “Stand back, sir; we are well-armed and prepared.”
There was a low murmur of voices outside, and my father exclaimed:
“Sep, Bigley, upstairs with you and six men. Two of you to each window, and beat down with your cutlasses all who try to board. Well keep the doors here. Now, my lads, tables and chairs against the doors. You’ll find the wickets handy. I thought so; they’re at the back door already.”
He darted to the back room, helped place a table against the door, mounted upon it, and as the blows of a crowbar were heard, he placed a pistol to the little wicket in the panel high up, and fired a shot to alarm the attacking party.
The blows of the crowbar ceased, and a low suppressed yell from many voices broke out from all round the little stone-built place.
“That has quieted them for the moment,” said my father; and, applying his eye to an aperture made for the purpose, he inspected the attacking force.