P. C. Breagh said, meeting the imperious stare with yellow-gray eyes that blazed tigerishly:
"Excellency, the dead man is her father, Colonel de Bayard, 777th Mounted Chasseurs of the Imperial Guard."
"Stand back," said the domineering voice, "and I will speak to her!"
At a touch of the spur the great brown mare moved forward, breasting a lance-shaft that barred the narrow alley, terribly squeezing the Sergeant and his men.
"Mademoiselle de Bayard!" said the authoritative voice.
"Excellency, she does not hear you! The shock has been too terrible," Carolan was beginning. He was brusquely interrupted with:
"People usually listen when I speak to them." And the curt command was issued—in French, suave and polished:
"Be good enough, Mademoiselle de Bayard, to stand up and listen to me!"
The big brown mare snorted angrily and fidgeted. He turned her head with an iron hand on the curb-bit, looking steadily at the other female thing.
"Mademoiselle de Bayard, do you hear?"