“Me!” she exclaimed in surprise, making an involuntary but perfectly vain effort of resistance.
“Yes, you, Miss Bridget Martin!” said the officer.
“What are you about to do with me?” she demanded, recovering her self-possession, and ceasing to resist where resistance would be unavailing and undignified.
“We are going to put you in Castle Thunder; you are not to be treated as a prisoner of war, but to be tried as a spy.”
“I!” she exclaimed, in amazement.
“Yes, you, Miss Bridget Martin!” replied the officer in a mocking tone.
Britomarte looked around in despair for Justin. She knew, of course, that he could not help her. She only wished to take leave of him, before going into a captivity that was likely to end in death. But Justin was nowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, several hundred yards in advance of her in the line of march.
So Britomarte was taken into Castle Thunder, and delivered into the custody of the officer in command of that prison. First she was led into an office where her supposed name—Bridget Martin—was recorded in the prison books, and where a receipt was taken from the warden for her person. Then she was conducted to a cell opening on a corridor on the second floor, and having a broad grated window looking out upon the street. This cell was about seven by five in size, and was provided with a narrow mattress laid upon the floor, and covered with a gray blanket. There was no other furniture whatever.
Yet still, how much better her situation was here than it had been in the Libby!
As soon as the door was closed, and the key was turned, and she found herself alone, she sank down upon the mattress, for she was more than half dead with fatigue, and rested with a sense of infinite relief.