Our progress through the country was so gradual that it was about three weeks before we at last reached the Nabob’s capital. During our long march I had not once seen my cousin, nor did I know what had become of him, nor whether he had stayed behind in Calcutta or attached himself to the Moors’ army.
Moorshedabad is a great, rich place, very oriental in character, there being no foreigners resident in it, except a few Armenians, a race of thieves and pedlars, worse than Jews, who also infested Calcutta. But I had little opportunity of exploring its bazaars and palaces at this time, being conveyed straight to a filthy hut, formerly used as a cowshed, standing outside the Nabob’s palace, where I found my companions already arrived, and where I was forced to lie on straw, and not allowed to move abroad.
In this miserable place, guarded by sentries, we lay for some days, being all of us too feeble to contrive any plan of escape. Each morning Surajah Dowlah sent a messenger to us, to ask if we were yet prepared to disclose the truth about the treasure. We were informed that he was deeply incensed at the failure of his raid on Fort William, to which it seems he had looked to bring enormous sums into his treasury.
On the third or fourth night, just as I was settling myself to sleep on a rude heap of straw which I had gathered together against the wall of the shed, the door softly opened and a man entered. As soon as he spoke I knew him at once to be my cousin Rupert.
“Which of you is named Ford?” he asked, speaking in the Indian language; for it was too dark for him to see my face.
“I am,” I answered in English, sitting up.
He placed his finger to his lips, and stepped across the hut to where I was, while my three companions raised themselves eagerly on their elbows, to know what passed.
Rupert, who still wore his Moor’s dress, kneeled down on the straw beside me, and whispered in my ear—