The unfortunate Baron Stilkin was subjected to the indignity of being searched. Only such ordinary things as a gentleman carries about with him were discovered in the Baron’s pockets, but certainly no silver forks or spoons.
“And where is your companion?” asked Mynheer Bunckum in an authoritative tone.
“I know no more than the man in the moon. I parted from him when we read the notice that trespassers on this estate would be prosecuted; till then we did not know that we were trespassing, but on discovering that such was the case, we were retiring when, your shouts alarming us, we proceeded farther than we should otherwise have done.”
“Then you say you know nothing about the so-called Count Funnibos?”
“I know nothing about the real Count Funnibos, for real he is, as I am a real Baron!” cried the ill-treated noble, his spirits rising once more. “I conclude that he is by this time out of these grounds, and on his way to the inn where we are residing; and I must beg you to understand, Mynheer, that we shall forthwith proceed to the Hague, and lay a formal complaint before our Ambassador of the way in which we distinguished foreigners have been treated.”
“I will take the consequences,” answered Mynheer Bunckum; and turning to his servants, he said, “We have no evidence against the man; conduct him to the confines of the estate, and with such kicks as you feel disposed to bestow, let him go his way.”
“I protest, I loudly protest against this treatment!” cried the Baron.
But the sturdy Frieslander with his companions, utterly regardless of all the Baron could say, dragged him along till they reached the outskirts of the estate, when, placing him before them, they bade him run for his life, which to the best of his power he endeavoured to do to save himself from the kicks they had threatened to bestow. On he ran, not once looking behind him, followed by the derisive laughter of the sturdy Frieslander and his companions.