Chapter Thirty Two.
The days passed slowly by, and one hour I was horribly dejected by the dulness of my existence, the next cheery and in high spirits, as I felt that I was getting stronger, and in less pain. It was very lonely lying there, but many things put me in mind of the “Arabian Nights”—the fine tent, with the shadows of the trees upon its roof; the silent servants who might very well have been slaves, so eager were they to respond to the slightest call, and so silent in their obedience; the soft glow of the lamp on the rich curtain and carpets; and the pleasant little banquets which were spread for me with silver vessels to drink from, and gilded baskets full of rare fruits or flowers.
At times, as I sat propped up, able now to feed myself, I used to begin by enjoying the meal, but before I had half finished the flowers looked dull, and the fruit tasted flat, for I told myself that, after all, I was only a prisoner, a bird in a gilded cage, broken winged and helpless.
The doctor came nearly every day, and told me that I was to ask for everything I wished for, as he preferred that I should wait until the rajah had been again before I went out.
“And when is he coming again?” I asked impatiently.
“I can only say when his highness pleases,” replied the doctor, with a grave smile. “But I will give orders for something to be done to please you; to-morrow a couch shall be made for you outside the tent.”
That was something, and only one who has been wounded and lain hot and restless upon a couch alone can judge of the eagerness with which I looked forward to the next day.
It came at last, and after trying very hard to comport myself with the dignity becoming a British officer, the fact that I was almost the youngest in the Company’s service would come out, and I suddenly burst out with—
“I say, Salaman, when is this couch outside to be ready?”