He could not help it.

He hates the smugglers.

You shall not tell.

Pray, pray, say you will not!" Archy was silent.
"Do you not hear me ?" came in imperious tones.
"Yes, I hear you," he replied; "but it is my duty, and--" "Yes--yes--speak!" "I must." "Oh!" The interjection came as if it were the outcome of sudden passion.
There was a quick, rustling sound, and before the boy could realise what was to come, the door was closed, the lock shot into its socket, and he heard the grinding sound of bolts, top and bottom.
Then, as Archy stood in the dark, literally aghast with astonishment, he heard the faint rustling once more, and again all was silent.
"Well!" he exclaimed; "and I felt sorry for her as one might for one's sister at home, and hung back from getting her people into trouble.

Of all the fierce little tartars! Oh, it's beyond anything! Why, she has locked me up!" He laughed, but it was a curious kind of laugh, full of vexation, injured _amour propre_, as the French call our love of our own dignity, of which Archibald Raystoke, in the full flush of his young belief in his importance as a British officer, had a pretty good stock.
"I never did!" he exclaimed, after standing listening for a few minutes to see if the girl would repent and return.