This time the General looked at our hero with awakening interest, while he waited eagerly for his answer.
"I can, I am told, speak like a native, sir," answered Owen modestly. "I can also speak Hindustani."
It was evident that General Wellesley was not the one to allow the possibility of a mistake. He turned to one of the officers and gave a short order. A little later a Mahratta advanced and salaamed.
"This is one of the Mahratta friendly chiefs," he said. "I have instructed him to converse with you."
Had our hero told anything but the strict and accurate truth, he would then and there have been confounded. But he was sure of himself, and a minute later found the Mahratta salaaming to him and conversing at a pace which utterly forbade those who had a smattering of the language following the conversation.
"My lord," said the native, turning to the General, "the sahib tells me that he believes that he lived in this country when a babe, and learned Hindustani, and mayhap some of our tongue even before he was taught his own. Truly, I can believe it. But for his colour and his dress he is a Mahratta."
"And here is a report to that effect, received from Calcutta, sir," said one of the officers, abstracting a parchment from a leather satchel. "This came through with the column with which Mr. Jones marched."
"I will see it. Put this officer's name down for special service, in connection with interpreting or otherwise. He has shown great energy and courage. Good-morning, Mr. Jones."
He acknowledged Owen's salute and stood looking after him as he limped away.