"
He looked at my outstretched palm, and laid his own upon it. "'T is
fairly spoken," he said slowly, "and I think you mean it." Then he
grew peevish. "A pest on this country!" he cried. "We are all kings
in disguise, and have a monarchy hidden in our hats. And what does it
amount to? No bread, no wine, no thanks; a dog's life and a jackal's
death,--and all to hold some leagues of barren land for his
petticoat-ridden majesty at Versailles. Oh, why not say it? We can
tell the truth here without losing our heads."
"The king's arm"--I began.
"Is long," he interrupted. "Yet, in truth, your face is longer. Are
you so eager to be gone? Well, get you to the prisoner, and, my hand
on it, I shall ask for nothing more."
CHAPTER III
BEHIND THE COMMANDANT'S DOOR
The commandant's door had come to be the portal through which I stepped
from safety into meddling. Yet I opened it now with laughter peeping
from my sleeve. To bait the Englishman in Huron seemed a good-natured
enough jest, and full of possibilities.
But one look at the prisoner drained my laughter. He was lying on a
bench, his face hidden in his out-flung arms, and his slenderness and
helplessness pulled at me hard.
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