We naturally attracted some attention passing along the streets, but these people of Bolivar were fed on daily sensations, and just now chanced to be pretty well sated, for they took it out in staring.
Thus we came to the big mansion of the alcalde.
Here was the irony of fate, to be thus ignominiously carted back, prisoners of war after the brilliant campaign that had ended in the tragedy of the harbor—it was cruel.
I had only time to say a few more sentences to Hildegarde, giving her good cheer, and bidding her to be ever on the watch for me, and ready to make another break for liberty when my guards tore me away; between them I was marched down a flight of stairs and along a dark corridor—I heard a door creak open, was pushed forward, stumbled and fell and lying there heard a rusty key creak in the lock, telling me I was a prisoner in a dungeon.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE GUARD I LOVED.
This sort of treatment was really rougher than I had reason to expect—it gave me a very unpleasant realization that the alcalde must be decidedly in earnest.
His dignity had been badly jarred, and I fancied it would take a tremendous sum to act as balm to his lacerated feelings.
Perhaps the price might be too mighty for even my Fortunatus purse to reach.
Well, I lay where I had fallen for a little time; it was just as good a berth as any until my eyes could begin to grow accustomed to the inky darkness.