"What is it, neighbours?" he said, taking no notice of the major, and speaking the local dialect.
"Why, this gentleman hath brought us here to seize a spy," said one of them—our old acquaintance Le Gros.
"There is no spy here but himself," answered Le Gallais. Do you not know who he is, Maître Le Gros? This is Major Querto, who came here about selling Jersey to the French.
"What are you saying in your whoreson lingo?'" cried the major. "Let us in."
"He wishes to do some mischief here," pursued Le Gallais. "Perhaps to rob the ladies. Will you see Michael Lempriere's wife plundered?"
"Never," said another of the peasants. "He said a spy had got admission on false pretences."
"There is no one here but I," said Le Gallais. "Do you take me for a spy?"
"We do not, Alain. Vive M. le Capitaine! What shall we do with him?" said many friendly voices.
"Take him to the Centenier under the Gallows-hill," said Alain, availing himself of the rising tide. "Or, stay"—as he caught a look from Querto, in which agony and reproach were mingled—"If he prefers it, carry him on board the first ship bound for France. I will answer for his passage money. Handle him as he deserves."
To hear was to obey with the angry islanders. Hustled and disarmed, bonnetted and bound with handkerchiefs, Querto was borne off, howling and cursing. In a few minutes all was once more still in and about the house, only the good watch dog had suffered. He would never sound another alarm. One strobe of Querto's sabre had severed his faithful head from his body.