Surajah Dowlah was little changed from when I had last seen him. His features still preserved that aspect of ruined handsomeness and marred and minished glory, which is ascribed to the fallen archangel by our great poet Milton—whom I, for one, will never stoop to compare with your writer of lascivious stage-plays and sonnets, after whom all the world is now running frantic. Roy Dullub handed the paper which we had brought containing our proposals to the Nabob, who read it over before he condescended to glance at us.
No sooner did he see me, however, than his face changed. He turned his head, and whispered something to his favourite, pointing to me at the same time. Then he addressed us, with smooth civility, pretending to ignore our previous acquaintance.
“I will desire my ministers to consider your proposals,” he said. “The Dewan shall confer with you, and let you know my pleasure.”
“That is not enough for us,” replied Mr. Scrafton. He naturally took it on himself to speak, as my elder and superior. “Your Highness has committed a breach of good faith in crossing the English boundary while negotiations are in progress.”
“You need have no fear about that,” the Nabob responded. “My intentions towards the English are friendly. I come among you simply as a guest. Tell Sabat Jung that he may lay down his sword and confide in my goodwill.”
To this Mr. Scrafton replied by a fresh remonstrance, but he soon saw that nothing was to be got from Surajah, whose answers were evidently being inspired by his secret adviser, Lal Moon. At length the Nabob dismissed us, and we retired from the durbar.
As we were passing out we saw, standing in the doorway, the Gentoo Omichund, whose house we were in. This man, well known in Bengal, possessed large interests in Calcutta, as well as in other parts of the Nabob’s territories. For this reason he had long played a double game between the Moors and English, seeking to keep in with both sides. Now, as we came past, he fixed a significant look upon us, and whispered in English in my ear—
“Take care of yourself!” Then, as I stood still for an instant he added in the same sly tone, “Does your commander know that the Nabob’s cannon are not yet come up?”
Before I could answer he slipped away in the crowd. I followed on after Mr. Scrafton, and whispered to him what I had heard, as we were on our way to the Dewan’s tent.
“It is my opinion,” I added, “that we are to be detained as prisoners. The Nabob is merely amusing Mr. Clive till his batteries have arrived.”