“Sir,” I answered, “I am obliged by your kind expressions, but I am an Englishman, and in my country there is no man who can put me to death unless I commit some crime against the laws; nor do I choose to live in any place where I hold my life by the favour of a prince.”
A murmur ran through the throng of courtiers at this reply, some of the high officers whom I knew to be concerned in the plot pretending to be especially shocked.
Surajah Dowlah raised his head and looked at me in some surprise.
“I should not care to be king of your country if I could not put a man to death when I wished to. Allah has created kings, and has put men’s lives into our hands. It is destiny. Those who fall by my hands would perish instead by pestilence or famine or wild beasts if I forbore to slay them. They die because it is the will of Allah.”
I listened in consternation to this frightful profession of fatalism by which Surajah Dowlah sought to decline the responsibility of his wicked acts. In the meantime he read the letter which I had brought from Colonel Clive.
“Why does Sabat Jung so earnestly desire me to disband my troops?” he asked presently.
“Your Highness’s own conscience must tell you that,” I returned. “So long as you keep your army in the field, threatening Calcutta, it is impossible to believe that you are in earnest in your professions of friendship towards the English. The present state of things keeps the minds of the merchants unsettled and prevents the resumption of trade, without which our factories cannot subsist in Bengal.”
“No, no,” the Nabob broke out, speaking very earnestly, “I design nothing against you. But I am in fear of the Morattoes, who meditate another invasion.”
“Have no fear of that, sir. Colonel Clive will protect you, if necessary, against the Morattoes. But you may depend upon it he will never believe in your friendship till your troops are withdrawn from Plassy.”