“But I have no wish to see Mynheer Bunckum,” said the Count; “indeed, I have a decided objection to do so. He has allowed the most unjust suspicions to take possession of his mind.”
“I care not a pin for your objections,” said the steward. “Come along with me, I can waste no further time: come along, I say;” and the steward laying hold of the Count by one arm, and the collar of his coat with the other hand, walked him along the path towards the castle in the fashion policemen are wont to treat offenders in the streets of London. The Count was too weak from hunger, alarm, and fatigue to offer any resistance, and allowed himself to be conducted in the direction the steward chose to go. They soon reached the castle; the steward, on inquiring for Mynheer Bunckum, was informed that he had gone out with the fair daughters of Mynheer Van Arent.
“Then there is but one thing to be done,” observed the steward. “We must lock up this stranger in the dungeon till our master returns. Where are the keys?” They were quickly brought to him, and aided by the domestics of the establishment, he led the Count down a flight of stone steps to the dungeon.
“My friend,” said the Count, who was beginning to recover, “this is very extraordinary treatment, but I presume you are acting under orders. I have a request to make. I am very hungry, and shall feel grateful if you will bring me some food; and, as I scarcely know otherwise how to pass the period of my incarceration, I shall be still further obliged if you will supply me with a violin, should you have such an instrument in the castle.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the steward. “Then you are a strolling musician, as we have heard it reported. Well, we happen to have a violin, for I play it myself, and you shall be supplied with food, as I conclude Mynheer Bunckum would not wish to starve you to death.”
“Thank you, my good friend, I am much obliged to you for your promise; at the same time, I beg leave to remark that I am not a strolling musician, but am as I represent myself, Count Funnibos.”
“That is neither here nor there,” said the steward, “you shall have the food and you shall have the violin; now please go down those steps, and make yourself as much at home as you like.”
Finding resistance useless, the Count descended the steps into a large vaulted chamber, which appeared from the contents on which the light fell through the open door, to be used as a lumber-room or store-room rather than as a prison.
“Is this a fit place in which to thrust a gentleman?” said the Count, feeling his dignity considerably hurt. “Had it been a dungeon, with chains and bolts and bars, it would have been only such as many an unfortunate nobleman has been compelled to inhabit. But to be treated as if I were a piece of lumber is unbearable.”
“We have no such refined opinions in this country, Mynheer,” said the steward, with a grin on his countenance. “But make yourself happy, there is a chest for you to sit on and another on which your supper shall be placed. As to your bed and bedding we will see about that by-and-by, and the violin you ask for shall be brought forthwith. Perhaps in return you will favour me with a tune, as I am a lover of music, and shall be pleased to hear you play.”