“I am an interpreter in the service of the Company, may it please your Highness. I am but newly arrived in your country, and know nothing of the other matters you have asked about.”
The Nabob gave a sullen frown.
“Take the wretch away out of my sight. He is a worthless capture,” he said.
But one of the three men on the daïs, a young, handsome Gentoo, with a cruel, cunning face—I afterwards heard he was Lal Moon, the Nabob’s chief favourite—bent over his master and whispered something in his ear. Instantly Surajah Dowlah sat up, furious.
“You have lied to me!” he screamed. “You speak our language, and yet you say you are but newly arrived. That must be a lie!”
He looked round at his courtiers, and there was a murmur of admiration at his sagacity.
“Your Highness is mistaken,” I said, keeping cool. “I learned the Indostanee language on my way out to the East Indies, from the secretary of Colonel Clive.”
As I pronounced this name I saw a movement among those present. The Nabob stared, not understanding to whom I referred; but an older man, with a proud, discontented, and yet apprehensive air, who also stood on the daïs, and was, I found out, Meer Jaffier, Surajah Dowlah’s uncle, and commander of his armies, this man, I say, spoke in explanation—
“The youth means that he came on the ship with Sabat Jung.”
No sooner did the Nabob hear this than he changed colour.