The informer almost shrieked as he heard the charge. His knees trembled, the blood left his cheeks, and he looked a most guilty wretch.
"Look at him," Allen exclaimed. "Tell me, is he not guilty?"
"I did not do it. He—he shot himself."
"And you took the skins. Ah, my fine friend, Frenchman or Canadian, you may well tremble. England does not accept the services of murderers. You sought to save yourself by denouncing me. Your trick has failed. I shall not surrender on the accusation of a murderer. I will give my parole to appear against you on your trial."
"You refuse to surrender?" asked the sergeant, in amazement.
"If my accuser was a man of honor instead of a murderer I should bow to fate, but unless you have some one to accuse me who is not tainted I shall resist you, and if I fall my family will hold you accountable for my death."
The sergeant was in a quandary.
He had been ordered to arrest Ethan Allen, and here was a man who had put him to the proof. The only accuser was one whose word was of no account, for he was a self-confessed murderer.
"Are you Ethan Allen?" the sergeant asked, most innocently.
"If you think so arrest me. I shall not answer any questions except before a proper tribunal."