“Your presence is now required down-stairs, milord,” said General Sertchaieff. “If you will give yourself the trouble of walking, it will be as well; otherwise we must take you.”
Choosing the less of the two evils, Caerleon allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and conducted down the stairs to his study by his captors, wondering vaguely whether a scaffold and a block would meet his eyes on entering. Nothing of the kind was visible, however, although the room was crowded with people—officers of the palace and city guards mostly, with a sprinkling of civilians, principally officials connected with the Ministry of War, and a number of men of foreign appearance, who were evidently exiles returned from Scythia. On the writing-table lay a document, which General Sertchaieff presented to Caerleon as a formal deed of abdication, and demanded his signature.
“I thought you had done with that foolery,” said Caerleon. “I have told you already that I won’t abdicate.”
“Milord,” said the War Minister, impressively, “we are anxious not to shed blood, but we are not men to be trifled with; and if you refuse to sign the paper, Captain O’Malachy has his orders.”
“Sign under compulsion,” whispered Cyril. “I can bear witness that you were forced by threats to do it, and it can’t stand.”
“Shut up, Cyril!” said Caerleon, gruffly. “Have you unlimited time to waste, General?”
“At least consider your brother and your servant, who must suffer with you if you remain obstinate, instead of returning in safety to England,” said General Sertchaieff.
“If ’is Majesty will say anything to get me my ’ands free for a moment, fust thing I do, I’ll give you one in the eye,” said Wright, ferociously.
“We are to understand, then, milord, that you refuse finally to sign the deed?” asked the General.
“I do refuse,” said Caerleon, “and if there is one man here, of all those who have taken oaths of allegiance to me and have eaten my bread, who has one spark of honesty left in him, I hope he will let it be known that I preferred death to abdication.”