“He says,” he translated, “you must recite something.”

St. Clair exclaimed incredulously: 

“Recite!” he gasped.

Than his indignant protest nothing could have been more appropriate.

“Wants to see you act out,” insisted Billy.  “Go on,” he begged; “humor him.  Do what he wants or he’ll put us in jail!”

“But what shall I—­”

“He wants the curse of Rome from Richelieu,” explained Billy.  “He knows it in French and he wants you to recite it in English.  Do you know it?”

The actor smiled haughtily.

“I wrote it!” he protested.  “Richelieu’s my middle name.  I’ve done it in stock.”

“Then do it now!” commanded Billy.  “Give it to him hot.  I’m Julie de Mortemar.  He’s the villain Barabas.  Begin where Barabas hands you the cue, ’The country is the king! ’”

In embarrassment St. Clair coughed tentatively.

“Whoever heard of Cardinal Richelieu,” he protested, “in a navy uniform?”

“Begin!” begged Billy.

“What’ll I do with my cap?” whispered St. Clair.

In an ecstasy of alarm Billy danced from foot to foot.

“I’ll hold your cap,” he cried.  “Go on!”

St. Clair gave his cap of gold braid to Billy and shifted his “full-dress” sword-belt.  Not without concern did President Ham observe these preparations.  For the fraction of a second, in alarm, his eyes glanced to the exits.  He found that the officers of his staff completely filled them.  Their presence gave him confidence and his eyes returned to Lieutenant Hardy.

That gentleman heaved a deep sigh.  Dejectedly, his head fell forward until his chin rested upon his chest.  Much to the relief of the president, it appeared evident that Lieutenant Hardy was about to accede to his command and apologize.

St. Clair groaned heavily.

“Ay, is it so?” he muttered.  His voice was deep, resonant, vibrating like a bell.  His eyes no longer suggested apology.  They were strange, flashing; the eyes of a religious fanatic; and balefully they were fixed upon President Ham.

“Then wakes the power,” the deep voice rumbled, “that in the age of iron burst forth to curb the great and raise the low.”  He flung out his left arm and pointed it at Billy.

“Mark where she stands!” he commanded.

With a sweeping, protecting gesture he drew a round Billy an imaginary circle.  The pantomime was only too clear.  To the aged negro, who feared neither God nor man, but only voodoo, there was in the voice and gesture that which caused his blood to chill.

“Around her form,” shrieked St. Clair, “I draw the awful circle of our solemn church!  Set but one foot within that holy ground and on thy head—­” Like a semaphore the left arm dropped, and the right arm, with the forefinger pointed, shot out at President Ham.  “Yea, though it wore a CROWN—­I launch the CURSE OF ROME!”