"You'll be hurting someone if you don't take care," I said.

"I do when I care to. That was only a hint. Who are you, and what do you
want here?"

"I'm Phil Carré, of Belfontaine. I want to see Monsieur Le Marchant--and
Ma'm'zelle Carette."

"Oh, you do, do you? And what do you want with them?"

"I'll tell them when I see them. Do you always wish your friends
good-morning with a musket on Brecqhou?"

"Our friends don't come till they're asked."

"Then you don't have many visitors, I should say."

"All we want," was the curt reply.

He was a tall, well-built fellow, some years older than myself,
good-looking, as all the Le Marchants were, defiant of face and careless in
manner. He looked, in fact, as though it would not have troubled him in the
least if his bullet had gone through my head.

He had finished loading his gun, and stood blocking the way, with no
intention of letting me pass. And how long we might have stood there I do
not know, when I saw another head bobbing along among the golden-rod, and
another of the brothers came up and stood beside him.

"What is it, then, Martin? Who is he?" he asked, staring at me.