his head. Then the fellow fetched out an extraordinarily dirty hankerchief and began to clean Prokop’s clothes. “Mud,” he remarked and rubbed him assiduously.
“Back!” he said finally, and indicated the green gate. Prokop weakly assented. The man with the pipe led him as far as the old wall, and bent down, his hands on his knees. “Climb up,” he ordered. Prokop clambered on to his shoulders, the man drew himself up sharply with an “Up!” and Prokop, seizing an overhanging branch, found himself on the top of the wall. He was almost crying with shame.
And, to add to everything, when, scratched and swollen, and covered with mud, he crept humiliated up the steps of the castle to his suite, he met Princess Willy on the stairs, Prokop tried to pretend that he wasn’t there, or that he did not recognize her, or something of the sort, omitted to salute her and dashed upstairs like a statue made of mud. But just as he was passing her he caught her astonished, haughty, highly offended look. He stopped stockstill. “Wait,” he cried and rushed up to her. “Go,” he cried, “and tell them, tell them that . . . that I don’t care twopence for them and that . . . I don’t consent to be imprisoned, see? I don’t consent!” he roared and brought down his fist on the banisters so that they rattled, after which he dashed into the park again, leaving the Princess behind him pale and dumbfounded.
A few moments later some one almost obliterated by mud rushed into the porter’s house, knocked the old man over with an oak table, seized Bob by the throat and dashed his head against the wall so vio-
