"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 André 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 had another laugh together. I began to wonder whether every one that wore a uniform of grey and white with gilt buttons made it his amusement to play upon the ignorance of uninitiated people; but on reflection I could not think Mr. Thorold had done so. I resolved to be careful how I trusted the rest of the cadets, even Preston;
and indeed my companion remarked that I had better not believe anything I heard without asking him. We ran down and inspected the casemates; and then took our seats again for one last look on the eastern parapet. The river and hills were growing lovely in cooler lights; shadow was stealing over the plain.
"Shall I see you to-morrow evening?" my companion asked suddenly.
"To-morrow evening?" I said. "I don't know. I suppose we shall be at home."
"Then I shall not see you. I meant, at the hop."
"The hop?" I repeated. "What is that?"
"The cadets' hop. During the encampment we have a hop three times a week—a cotillion party. I hope you will be there. Haven't you received an invitation?"