I said,
"Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French--"_Ou est_,"
says I, "_le chemin pour aller_ out of (I couldn't remember the French
for 'out of') _cette_ confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand
me. I tipped him a wink--I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't
enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came
up,--what _he_ was I don't know--but suddenly, from their awful
manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me,
"Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With
great presence of mind I pointed to my nose--they saw the point at
once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I!
and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard,
where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the
road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away!
[Illustration: Policeman.]
Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely.
Expect me back soon. Ah, what an escape!--to think I might have
languished for the best of my days in irons or in the mines out in
Siberia, like _Rip Van Winkle_, or the Prisoner of Chillon, who dug
himself out with his nails (when I was a boy I remember it, and tried
to do it in the garden), and came up with a long beard when everyone
was dead and gone.
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