Ah! you will say, and a pair of nutcrackers, and some salt into which I could dip the ivory-white corrugated scraps when I had peeled them, and possibly then a glass of fine old port wine, making together—the one indigestible, the other heating—about as bad a mixture as a weak convalescent could partake of in India.
But then, you see, you are perfectly wrong, for I was not thinking of eating and drinking, but wishing I could have a dozen or so of the big green walnuts I remembered growing on a great tree down in Surrey.
What for?
Why, to beat up into a kind of dark juice, in which I could wash my hands, neck, and face, my head, too, and then my feet and legs, till I had stained myself as dark as the darkest Hindu I had ever met.
The windows, with the gateway to be reached by means of the twisted curtains; the dress of one of those men, and my skin darkened. So far as this already on the first morning of my gilded captivity!
“I am getting on,” I said to myself, with a smile on my face, and then I grew rigid; for I turned and saw that Salaman was watching me keenly, as if he could read every thought.
“Let not my lord be angry,” he said humbly. “I could not help seeing that he was pleased. Yes, they are two good servants; the best I could find. His highness said I was to do everything to make my lord happy. But will he not eat?”
“Yes,” I cried eagerly, for I felt that he could not have read my thoughts, but had interpreted my looks to have meant satisfaction with the servants.
And then I took my place, feeling all at once hungry and ready for my meal.
“I must eat and grow strong,” I said. “Dost cannot get to me here, even if he dared use the same disguise. I must get out of the palace, and away into the country, and then all will be well.”