"No, no, no!" she answered, again wringing her hands. "It is to take—to take you—to the citadel!"
"To the citadel!" Roy opened his eyes. "I say, what a farce! For knocking down an image not worth fifty sous!"
"For breaking the bust of the Emperor, and for shouting 'Á bas—'" Lucille could not finish.
"You mean that they will keep him there to-night?" said Denham.
She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. "Oui, oui—the citadel to-night! And to-morrow, they say, to Bitche."
"To—Bitche!" whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal to Ivor.
"Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them."
Ivor crossed the room with his resolute stride and went out, meeting the gendarmes on the stairs. Lucille clutched Roy's arm again, half in reproach, half in protection. "Ah, my poor boy I—mon pauvre garcon!—how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!"
"Shut up, Lucille! You needn't jaw a fellow like that! It can't mean anything, really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of money out of my father. And that's the worst of it," declared Roy, in an undertone. "I hate to have done such a stupid thing; and I hate the worry of it for Den, just now when he's like this. But you know they couldn't really send me to Bitche, only for smashing a paltry image. It would be ridiculous."
"Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what it means to be under a despot such as—but one may not dare to speak."