"I promised M. Belmont," he muttered to himself, "that I would not go near his house again, but that was because I was a rebel. Now I am a loyalist, a devoted servant of King George, and I wear his glorious livery. There can, therefore, be no possible objection to my visit."
And the old man chuckled as he neared his destination.
It was not later than eleven o'clock, but the house was still and dark. There were no lights on the front, and the snow was untrampled on the stairs and sidewalk. Batoche hesitated a moment, fearing that some misfortune might have happened to his friends within the four or five weeks since he had last seen them. But on moving cautiously to the rear, he saw a bright light in the kitchen and a fainter one in an upper room.
"All is well," thought he, as he ascended the steps and knocked at the kitchen door. His rap echoed loud within, and he heard the shuffling of flying female feet. He then tried the lock, but found the door double-barred.
"I have frightened the maid and the house is barricaded, but I hope the girl will have sense enough to announce that somebody is at the door."
Presently the muffled stamping of manly slippers became audible and Batoche recognized the tread of M. Belmont.
"Who is there?"
"A friend."
"Your name?"
Batoche durst not give his name even in a whisper, for the winds of suspicion might bear it to headquarters.