Barney Custer, during this, to him, remarkable dialogue, had risen to his feet, and assisted the girl in rising. Now he turned and spoke to the officer.
“This farce,” he said, “has gone quite far enough. If it is a joke it is becoming a very sorry one. I am not a king. I am an American—Bernard Custer, of Beatrice, Nebraska, U.S.A. Look at me. Look at me closely. Do I look like a king?”
“Every inch, your majesty,” replied the officer.
Barney looked at the man aghast.
“Well, I am not a king,” he said at last, “and if you go to arresting me and throwing me into one of your musty old dungeons you will find that I am a whole lot more important than most kings. I’m an American citizen.”
“Yes, your majesty,” replied the officer, a trifle impatiently. “But we waste time in idle discussion. Will your majesty be so good as to accompany me without resistance?”
“If you will first escort this young lady to a place of safety,” replied Barney.
“She will be quite safe at Blentz,” said the lieutenant.
Barney turned to look at the girl, a question in his eyes. Before them stood the soldiers with drawn revolvers, and now at the summit of the hill a dozen more appeared in command of a sergeant. They were two against nearly a score, and Barney Custer was unarmed.
The girl shook her head.