“This is not the first time you have been arrested while in these dominions,” he said, sternly, “and I must remind you that lèse-majesté is a hanging matter.”
“Lèse-majesté!” I repeated, half in scorn, half in terror.
“Ya wohl, mein Herr,” he answered. “But, after all, I am simply obeying orders,” he added, with an inflection almost apologetic.
Where had I heard of that curious soft voice before? A voice so soft that his German sounded almost like Italian.
Meanwhile we had driven across the town, past the walls, and into the open country.
“You are perhaps conducting me to the frontier?” I suggested, deriving some relief from the fancy.
“Oh, hardly so far as that, let us hope,” he answered, with what struck me as a suppressed chuckle.
“Far?” I cried. “Can you use the word in speaking of a pocket-handkerchief?”
“It is small, but it is picturesque, it is paintable,” said he. “And, what is more, by every syllable you utter against it you weave a strand into your halter, and drive a nail into your coffin. Suicide is imprudent, not to say immoral.”
“If I could meet you on equal terms,” I cried, “I would pay you for your derision with a good sound Anglo-Saxon thrashing.”