“Oh, you English!” answered the judge. “You are always saying that time is money! How are you to get your three days back? I will tell you. Take them out of next week. Surely there are plenty more days!” CHARITY.—The highest exercise of charity is charity towards the uncharitable. “OUR HERO.” A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO. BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc. CHAPTER XXII. A BITTER EXPERIENCE. That march from Verdun to Bitche! If Roy Baron should live to be a hundred years old, the bitter memory of it would stand out still, pre-eminent among memories. He had at first only three English companions, middle-aged men, masters of merchantmen, accused of trying to escape from close confinement in the dungeon of the “Tour d’Angoulême” of the Verdun citadel. There, for no apparent reason beyond caprice, they had been flung by the commandant’s orders, and thence they were now no less arbitrarily remanded to the worse dungeons of Bitche. They were honest sailor-like men, rough in manner, but kindly; and they looked with pity at the fresh-faced boy, whom many a time they had seen in the streets of Verdun. One of them spoke to him, but Roy was in no mood for talk. He held his head well up, and strode resolutely along, with a spirited imitation of the bearing which was characteristic of Ivor; yet at his heart lay a weight like lead. It was such cruel work, being thus torn away from all whom he loved, and sent he hardly knew whither, merely for one little boyish fit of recklessness. At the first halting-place they were joined by a second and larger company, a party of English sailors, manacled two and two, like criminals. Sailors of the Royal Navy Roy knew at a glance, and he caught a glimpse also of three or four middies behind them. Then his attention was called off, as, to his unutterable wrath, he found himself also on the point of being put into fetters. Roy Baron—son of a Colonel in His Majesty’s Guards—to be handcuffed! The blood rushed to his face, then receded, leaving him as white as his own shirt-front. He clenched his hands fiercely; and the merchantman Captain, who had addressed him at the first, came a step nearer. “Sir, it’ll be worse for you if you resist! I wouldn’t, sir—I wouldn’t really!” As if in echo Roy seemed to hear Denham’s voice speaking too. “Think of your mother!” he had said. If he endured patiently, Roy might be the sooner sent back to her. The frank weather-beaten face of the sailor had an anxious look upon it. Roy said gravely, “Thank you, Captain!” and submitted, though not without a sting of hot tears smarting under his eyelids at the indignity. Then he flung himself flat on the ground, passionately hiding his face in those manacled hands, and refusing the coarse food that was offered to him. He had money in his possession, but Denham had advised him to be in no haste to betray the fact.