Once more did Fou-tan whisper a few low words to her father, the King.
The King knit his brows as though he were not entirely pleased with whatever suggestion Fou-tan had made, but presently the lines of his face softened and again he turned to the official to whom he had just spoken. "You will conduct the warrior to the palace and accord him all honour, for he is to be the guest of Beng Kher." Then, with Fou-tan, he ascended into the howdah of the royal elephant, while the officer, whom he had designated to escort Gordon King, approached the American.
King's first impression of the man was not a pleasant one. The fellow's face was coarse and sensual and his manner haughty and supercilious. He made no attempt to conceal his disgust as his eyes appraised the soiled and tarnished raiment of the common warrior before him. "Follow me, my man," he said. "The King has condescended to command that you be quartered in the palace," and without further words of greeting he turned and strode toward the elephant upon which he had ridden from the city.
In the howdah with them were two other gorgeously dressed officials and a slave who held a great parasol over them all. With no consideration for his feelings and quite as though he had not been present, King's companions discussed the impropriety of inviting a common soldier to the palace. Suddenly his escort turned toward him. "What is your name, my man?" he demanded, arrogantly.
"My name is Gordon King," replied the American; "but I am not your man." His voice was low and even and his level gaze was directed straight into the eyes of the officer.
The man's eyes shifted and then he flushed and scowled. "Perhaps you do not know," he said, "that I am the prince, Bharata Rahon." His tone was supercilious, his voice unpleasant.
"Yes?" inquired King politely. So this was Bharata Rahon—this was the man whom Beng Kher had selected as the husband of Fou-tan. "No wonder she ran away and hid in the jungle," murmured King.
"What is that?" demanded Bharata Rahon. "What did you say?"
"I am sure," said King, "that the noble prince would not be interested in anything a common warrior might say."
Bharata Rahon grunted and the conversation ended; nor did either address the other again as the procession wound its way through the avenues of Pnom Dhek toward the palace of the King. The way was lined with cheering people, and strongly apparent to King was the sincerity of their welcome to Fou-tan and the reality of their happiness that she had been returned to them.