“Then give me the key of the boat, and I will put myself across.”
“That is the same thing. I cannot. I’ll hold my tongue, but I will not—I dare not—help you.”
Andre-Louis looked a moment into that sullen, resolute face, and understood. This man, living under the shadow of La Tour d’Azyr, dared exercise no will that might be in conflict with the will of his dread lord.
“Fresnel,” he said, quietly, “if, as you say, the gallows claim me, the thing that has brought me to this extremity arises out of the shooting of Mabey. Had not Mabey been murdered there would have been no need for me to have raised my voice as I have done. Mabey was your friend, I think. Will you for his sake lend me the little help I need to save my neck?”
The man kept his glance averted, and the cloud of sullenness deepened on his face.
“I would if I dared, but I dare not.” Then, quite suddenly he became angry. It was as if in anger he sought support. “Don’t you understand that I dare not? Would you have a poor man risk his life for you? What have you or yours ever done for me that you should ask that? You do not cross to-night in my ferry. Understand that, monsieur, and go at once—go before I remember that it may be dangerous even to have talked to you and not give information. Go!”
He turned on his heel to reenter his cottage, and a wave of hopelessness swept over Andre-Louis.
But in a second it was gone. The man must be compelled, and he had the means. He bethought him of a pistol pressed upon him by Le Chapelier at the moment of his leaving Rennes, a gift which at the time he had almost disdained. True, it was not loaded, and he had no ammunition. But how was Fresnel to know that?
He acted quickly. As with his right hand he pulled it from his pocket, with his left he caught the ferryman by the shoulder, and swung him round.
“What do you want now?” Fresnel demanded angrily. “Haven’t I told you that I...”