But the order was more easily given than obeyed. For not only could the entire array of the Comanche Cowboys produce nothing even distantly resembling Indian silk (which at any rate was a counsel of perfection), but what was worse, their pockets were equally destitute of common domestic linen. Indeed the proceedings would have fallen through at this point had not the ambassadress offered her own. This was knotted round her brows by Joe Craig, with the best intentions in the world.
Immediately after completing the arrangement, he stepped in front of Prissy and said, thrusting his fist below her nose, "Tell me if you see anything—mind, true as 'Hope-you-may-Die!'"
"I do see something, something very dirty," said Prissy, "but I can't quite tell what it is."
"She can see, boys," cried Joe indignantly, "it's my hand."
Every boy recognised the description, and the handkerchief was once more adjusted with greater care and precision than before, so that it was only by the sense of smell that Prissy could judge of the proximity of Joe Craig's fingers.
"Please let me carry my basket myself—I've got my best china tea-service in it—and then I will be sure that it won't get broken."
A licentious soldiery was about to object, but a stern command issued unexpectedly from one of the arrow-slits through which their chief had been on the watch.
"Give the girl the basket! Do you hear—you?"
And in this manner Prissy entered the castle, guarded on either side by soldiers with fixed (wooden) bayonets. And at the inner and outer ports, the convoy was halted and asked for the pass-word.
"Death!" cried Joe Craig, at the pitch of his voice.