At last we climbed up the
crumbling masonry to a small platform which commanded the view
both east and south.
"What is this place for?" I asked.
"To plant guns on."
"They could not reach to the river, could they?"
"Much further — the guns of now-a-days."
"And the old vaults under here — I saw them as we passed by, —
were they prisons, places for prisoners?"
"A sort of involuntary prisoners," said Mr. Thorold. "They are
only casemates; prisons for our own men occasionally, when
shot and shell might be flying too thick; hiding places, in
short. Would you like to go to the laboratory some day, where
we learn to make different kinds of shot, and fire-works and
such things?"
"Oh, very much! But, Mr. Thorold, Mr. Caxton told me that
Andr? was confined in one of these places under here; he said
his name was written upon the stones in a dark corner, and
that I would find it."
Mr. Thorold looked at me, with an expression of such contained
fun that I understood it at once; and we bad another laugh
together.
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