“All right; what shall we do with her?” cried Kitty.
“I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Marjorie, and she ran across the hall to the drawing-room. “Come and help me, King,” she called back.
And in a moment the two returned, lugging a tall, heavy cathedral candlestick, which was one of their mother’s antique treasures.
It was of old brass, and was about six feet high. They stood this in the middle of the floor, and gravely announced that she was to be Joan of Arc, burnt at the stake.
“Here’s the stake,” said King, “and you’re the ill-fated Joan. You must meet your fate bravely. Step up, Joan!”
Miss Larkin, giggling at their nonsense, stepped up, and stood against the candlestick. Meantime Kitty had procured lots of string, and with this they bound the helpless martyr to the stake.
“Miscreant!” began King, who loved to speechify.
“Oh, no,” corrected Marjorie. “Joan of Arc wasn’t a miscreant—she was a martyr.”
“Well, martyr, then; Miss Martyr, I should say, we now bind thee to thy death pyre. Remember, oh remember, the misdeeds——”
“Oh, King,” cried Kitty, “you’re all wrong! I’ll make the speech. Oh, fair martyr, who art thus brought low, forgive thy tyrants——”