"
I put my hand up, and I found my hair and beard were very long
and almost white. Held against the light, my hands seemed
transparent. "What means my coming here?" asked I.
He shook his head. "I am but a surgeon," he answered shortly,
meanwhile writing with a flourish on a piece of paper. When he had
finished, he handed the paper to the soldier, with an order. Then
he turned to go, politely bowing to me, but turned again and said,
"I would not, were I you, trouble to plan escape these months yet.
This is a comfortable prison, but it is easier coming in than going
out. Your mind and body need quiet. You have, we know, a taste for
adventure"--he smiled--"but is it wise to fight a burning powder
magazine?"
"Thank you, monsieur," said I, "I am myself laying the fuse to
that magazine. It fights for me by-and-bye."
He shrugged a shoulder. "Drink," said he, with a professional air
which almost set me laughing, "good milk and brandy, and think of
nothing but that you are a lucky man to have this sort of prison."
He bustled out in an important way, shaking his head and talking
to himself. Tapping the chest of a bulky soldier who stood outside,
he said brusquely, "Too fat, too fat; you'll come to apoplexy.
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