"Shoulder arms!" he said sharply. The men obeyed. "Conduct the prisoners to the donjon!" he went on.
"This is all right," I said. "I suppose you know your own business. But it seems to me that you are acting queerly for a Court Historian!"
"It is all right," he said. "I have forgotten all about that. So has the King. Forward march!"
We were escorted to the donjon.
Don't ever go to a donjon if you can help it. We stayed there the rest of the day. I was looking through the bars, and my niece said nothing until late in the afternoon. Then she told me she had got them all in.
"You have got us all in," I said, with bitter meaning. She laughed.
After a while the guards came and told us to prepare for instant execution. I pointed out the illogical absurdity of "preparing for instant execution," but they could n't see it, and, as it only annoyed them and set them to talking about some "old crank," I saw they cared more for mechanics than for logic, and said nothing further. What a number of dull people there are in foreign climes!
We followed them along some very damp corridors which needed whitewashing, and soon came to a large plaza. I could not see very well, but I heard many voices saying, "Here they come!" "Bring them out!" "See the old fogy!"—by which they must have meant the captain, I suppose.
It suddenly occurred to me that possibly they meant to execute me and my niece. My mind sometimes will grasp an idea with breathless celerity. It was an annoying experience, and I resolved to avoid the scaffold, if it were possible to do so without loss of dignity or the family prestige.
