It was noon.  The excessive heat of the dying summer had grown almost unsupportable in the tower chamber where Baron de Trenck was confined.  Half empty flagons were scattered among the books which littered his table, but the repeated draughts in which the prisoner had sought refreshment had only served to add to his ever-increasing exasperation.

The major ransacked every nook and corner of the prisoner’s chamber and the interior of such pieces of furniture as might afford a possible hiding-place.  Remarking the annoyance which this investigation caused the baron, Doo said arrogantly: 

“The general has issued his orders, and it is a matter of little consequence to him whether or not they displease you.  Your attempts to escape have greatly incensed him against you.”

“And I,” retorted Trenck, with like hauteur, “am equally indifferent to your general’s displeasure.  I shall continue to dispose of my time as may best please me.”

“Good!” replied the major, “but in your own interests you would be wiser to philosophize with your books, and seek the key to the sciences, rather than that of the fortress.”

“I do not need your advice, major,” the baron observed, with sovereign disdain.

“You may perhaps repent later that you did not heed it.  Your attempts to escape have angered even the king, and it is impossible to say just how far his severity toward you may go.”

“But, great heavens! when I am deprived of my liberty without cause, have I not the right to endeavor to regain it?”

“They do not see the matter in that light in Berlin.  As a matter of fact this spirit of revolt against your sovereign only serves to greatly aggravate your crime.”

“My crime!” Trenck exclaimed, trembling with anger.

His glance fell upon the major’s sword and the thought came to him to tear it from his side and pierce his throat with it.  But in the same instant it occurred to him that he might rather profit by the situation.  Pale and trembling as he was, he retained sufficient self-control to modify the expression of his countenance and the tone of his voice, though his glance remained fixed upon the sword.

“Major,” he said, “no one can be called a criminal until he has been so adjudged by the courts.  Happily a man’s honor does not depend upon the inconsequent, malicious opinion of others.  On the contrary blame should attach to him who condemns the accused without a hearing.  No constituted power, whether that of king or judge, has yet convicted me of any culpable action.  Apart from the courtesy which should be observed between officers of the same rank, you, out of simple justice, should refrain front such an accusation.”

“Every one knows,” retorted Boo, “that you entered into relations with the enemy.”

“I?  Great God!”

“Do you not consider the Pandours, then, as such?”

“I visited their chief solely as a relative.  A glass of wine shared with him in his tent can hardly be construed into a dangerous alliance!”