“No, no, it’s myself that will spake to the gentleman,” exclaimed O’Grady, in that rich brogue in which an Irishman indulges when he is about to express a sentiment which comes up from the depth of his heart. “If your honour is under the belief that British officers are made up of such dirty ingredients that they would be capable of doing the vile, treacherous, ungrateful act you have insulted us by proposing, you never were more mistaken in your life. We are prisoners, and you have the power of doing whatever you like with us; but at least treat us with that respect which one gentleman has a right to demand from another.”
The French officer started back with astonishment, not unmixed with anger. “How have I insulted you? How dare you address me in that style?” he asked.
“When one man asks another to do a dirty action, he insults him, and that’s what you’ve asked us to do, Mounseer,” exclaimed O’Grady, indignantly. “And just let me observe, that it is possible we may have had wits enough in our own heads to concoct the story we told you without being indebted to any man, woman, or child for it, especially when we were stimulated with the desire of getting out of this outlandish country, and being at you again; and as to the clothes, small blame to the people who sold them when they got honest gold coins in exchange.”
“That story will not go down with me, young gentleman,” observed the officer with a sneer. “However, enough of this trifling; we shall see in a few days whether you will alter your mind. Monsieur,” he continued, turning to an elderly gentleman standing at the side of the hall, “we must have these persons locked up in one of your rooms. I beg that you will send your steward to point out a chamber from whence they cannot escape, and give us the trouble of again catching them.”
“Monsieur,” said the old gentleman, drawing himself up with an indignant air, “all the rooms are occupied; my château is not a prison, and I have no intention of allowing it to become one.”
“Ho! ho!” cried the officer, pulling his moustache, and stamping with rage, “is that the line you have taken up? I was ordered to respect your château, and so I must; but take care, citoyen... However, sergeant, take them to the old tower; there is a room at the top of that where they will be safe enough. The wind and rain beat in a little, to be sure, but for any inconvenience they may suffer, they will be indebted to my friend here. Off with them!”
With scant ceremony the sergeant dragged them through the hall, Reuben stumping along after them on his wooden leg. They soon reached the tower, which was close to the little harbour. It was a very old building of three low stories, surrounded by sand, and the stones outside were so rough and so frequently displaced, that even by the light of the now risen moon it seemed as if there could not be much difficulty in climbing up to the top from the outside, or descend by the same means.
The sergeant shoved them on before him up a winding stair, which creaked and groaned at every step.
“En avant, en avant!” cried the sergeant when O’Grady attempted to enter one of the lower chambers; and at length they found themselves in a room at the very top. The sergeant, grumblingly observing that they would not require food till the next morning, gave Reuben a push which nearly sent him sprawling into the middle of the chamber, closed the door with a slam, and locked and bolted it securely.
Reuben whipped off his wooden leg, and began flourishing it about and making passes at the door whence the sergeant had disappeared, exclaiming with a laugh, “Well, the beggars haven’t found me out, and they’ll be surprised at what a man with a timber toe can do!”