And this is not France, you understand. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. It was ten feet long, a relic. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion.
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