"My young sir," said Mr. Wyman, with some concern, "let me advise you to treat the court with due deference. This gentleman will act as interpreter, as I understand you do not speak or understand the language."
A man with a heavy black mustache waxed to needle points, and who seemed to wear a perpetual smile, took a position beside Harry, and the examination began.
"What is your name?"
"Harry Hamilton."
"Your age?"
"Fifteen."
"Your nationality?"
"American," answered Harry, "but look here, Mr. Interpreter, I wish you would ask the general what right he has to ask me these questions; why I was interfered with by his soldiers; why I was prodded in the back by their guns; why I was thrust into your old prison; why I am handcuffed, and why I am here; and just tell him firmly, Mr. Interpreter, that I do not propose to answer any more of his questions until he answers a few of mine."
The clerk, who was transcribing the testimony looked up in amazement as the interpreter began to literally and faithfully translate Harry's words. Mr. Wyman looked worried and leaned forward, and said:
"Treat the court with due deference, my young sir, or even my diplomacy may not be powerful enough to save you from the wrath of the general."