“Is it that bosh about the cast? O I know. They want to be paid, I suppose. Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I’ve been as quiet as anything--and then for you to come in like this! Den, you just keep still, and I’ll go and speak to them. I’ll settle it all. I know my father will pay.” “No, no, no--stay--you must not go,” panted Lucille. “Stay--it is the gendarmes! And they come to arrest you--to take you away!” The word “gendarmes” acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his feet in a moment. “What is it all about? I do not understand.” He touched Roy on the shoulder, with an imperative--“Tell me.” “It was only--I’d have told you before, only I didn’t like to bother you. It was at Curtis’. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf, and I just shied bits of wood at it, in fun. And I said ‘_À bas Napoléon_,’ or something of that sort; and then I threw a ball, and the idiotic thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the landlady--she’s a regular out-and-out virago--happened that very moment to come in, and she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried to explain things away, and I offered to pay, but she wouldn’t listen. She went on shrieking at us, and said it was an insult to the Emperor, and Wirion should know of it. She’s a Bonapartist--worse luck! Curtis made me hurry off, and said I was to tell my father at once. But he was out, and you--you know----” with a glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while Ivor said, “Roy, were you utterly mad?” “I--don’t know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I’m sorry about you--most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but I suppose they want me to go and pay directly. Is that it?” looking towards Lucille. “No, no, no,” she answered, again wringing her hands. “It is to take--to take Roy--to the citadel!” “To the citadel!” Roy opened his eyes. “O I say, what a farce! For knocking down a wretched little image, not worth fifty sous!” “For breaking a bust of the Emperor, and for shouting--‘_À bas_----’” Lucille could not finish. “You mean--that they will keep him there to-night?” Denham said. She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. “Oui--oui--the citadel to-night! And to-morrow--they say--to Bitche.” “To--Bitche!” whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal to Ivor. “Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them.” Ivor crossed the room with his rapid resolute stride, and went out, meeting the gendarmes half-way downstairs. Lucille clutched Roy’s arm again, half in reproach, half in protection. “Ah, my poor boy! mon pauvre garçon! how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!”