"Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are not good republicans," he jested.
"I have called them after your great leaders—but they do not always answer to their names," Rosette assured him seriously.
"Then they are only worthy to be executed. Your knife, comrade," cried one of the men, jumping to his feet. "What, more of them! Six, seven, eight," he counted, as the sheep came through the gap. "Why, 'twill be quite a massacre of traitors."
"Oh, please! you cannot eat them all! Leave me some, that I may drive back with me, else my master will beat me!" implored Rosette, beginning to fear that her chances of passing towards the far distant village were lessening.
"Your master! Who is your master?"
"He is a farmer down there," nodding vaguely as she spoke.
"Hark you! Have you by any chance seen a man bigger than the average skulking thereabouts?"
She shook her head. "There are few big men round here—none so fine as you!" she said prettily.
The man gave a proud laugh. "Ah! we of Paris are a fine race."
Rosette nodded. "My Master is a good republican. You will let me take him back the sheep," she coaxed.