A BITTER EXPERIENCE
THAT march from Verdun to Bitche! If Roy Baron should live to be a hundred years old, the bitterness of it would stand out still pre-eminent in his memory.
He had at first only three English companions, middle-aged men, masters of merchantmen, accused of trying to escape from close confinement in the dungeon of the "Tour d'Angoulême" of the Verdun citadel. There, for no apparent reason beyond caprice, they had been flung by the Commandant's orders, and thence they were now no less arbitrarily remanded to the worse dungeons of Bitche.
At the first halting-place they were joined by a second and larger company—a party of English sailors, manacled two and two, like criminals. Sailors of the Royal Navy, Roy knew at a glance; and he caught a glimpse also of three or four middies behind them. Then his attention was called off, as, to his unutterable wrath, he found himself also on the point of being put into fetters.
Roy Baron—son of a Colonel in His Majesty's Guards—to be handcuffed!
The blood rushed to his face, then receded, leaving him as white as his own shirt-front. He clenched his hands fiercely; and the merchantman Captain who had addressed him at the first came a step nearer.
"Sir, it'll be worse for you if you resist! I wouldn't, sir—I wouldn't, really!"
As if in echo Roy seemed to hear Denham's voice. "For your mother's sake—" he had said. If Roy endured patiently, he might be the sooner sent back to her.
The frank weather-beaten face of the sailor wore an anxious look. Roy said gravely, "Thank you, Captain," and submitted, though not without a sting of hot tears smarting under his eyelids at the indignity.
Then he flung himself flat on the ground, passionately hiding his face in those manacled hands, and refusing the coarse food that was offered to him. He had money in his possession, but Denham had advised him to be in no haste to betray the fact.