“Have you anything to declare?” asked an official, in a gold-peaked cap and blue frock coat, gruffly.

“Only that your seas are terrible,” was the reply.

The official made no answer, but merely pointed to some planks that had been placed upon trestles.  The foreigner glanced at the people who were standing in front of these planks, and noticed that they were pale with apprehension.

“Have you anything to declare?” was a second time uttered—­now by a person less gold-laced.  Then the official continued, “Here, open it!”

In a moment the portmanteau was thrown with force on the planks, and the foreigner protested.

“I understand you now.  I have no cigars—­I do not smoke.  I have no spirits—­I am what you call a teatotaller.  I have no lace—­I am a widower.”

“Open it!” was once more the cry—­this time with great vehemence.

“But I am innocent of concealing anything!  Believe me, there is nothing to declare!  I have some photographic plates—­to open them is ruin!  I prize my shirts—­they are heirlooms—­if they are roughly handled I can never wear them again.”  And the foreigner wrung his hands in his despair.

“If you will not open it,” replied the official, unmoved by his eloquent appeal, “we shall detain your luggage.”

“But this is barbarous—­cruel,” continued the foreigner, answering with excitement.  “I have been to Constantinople with its mosques, and the Turks have treated me with greater consideration.  I have seen the glories of Rome with its Forum, the splendours of Petersburg with its fortress prison, the treasures of Madrid with its art gallery—­and everywhere—­everywhere I have been treated with greater kindness, greater charity than here!  And yet you say this is the land of the brave and the free!”

“We say nothing of the sort,” retorted the official; “we say, open it!”

The foreigner, whose pallor was fearful to see, with his teeth clenched and his eyes starting from his head, put the key into the portmanteau lock, turned it, and the contents of the box was revealed to view.

In a moment the officials were upon it—­thrusting their inquisitive hands here, there, and everywhere.  There was a salad of boots, waistcoats, collars and brushes.  At length they came to the photographic plates—­they were removed in a trice from their receptacle, and held up to the light.

“Have you no hearts!” cried the foreigner, his face streaming with tears.  “In a moment you have undone the labour of years!  That plate—­now destroyed for ever—­when properly developed would have revealed the smiling features of my wife’s mother!  It took me a quarter of a century to catch her with such an expression!  For when she saw me she always frowned.  But ah, my shirts, my heirlooms!  In the name of mercy, spare my shirts!”

But no, once more the appeal was disregarded.  The small portmanteau was turned inside out.  This the official chalked.