“Best of it!” cried Hilton, who now obstinately refused to glance at the author of their trouble, and kept pacing up and down like a caged beast. “Are you mad?”
“Very,” whispered Chumbley; “but one can’t pitch into a woman. She fights with cunning, so must we, and wait for our chance to escape. There, it is of no use to chafe. Let’s be thankful that matters are no worse.”
“Worse!” cried Hilton, passionately, “they could not be worse;” and he spoke loudly enough for the Princess to hear his words.
“There—there, old fellow, calm down,” drawled Chumbley. “Make the best of it till her ladyship here has grown tired of her two caged birds, and has let us out. We are prisoners, I suppose, Princess?” he said, aloud.
“Prisoners or visitors, which you please, Mr Chumbley,” she said, smiling. “Let it be visitors, for though Captain Hilton has said such cruel things—see, I am not angered, but quite calm. You are my visitors, then; but you cannot get away until I give the word.”
“Or our people fetch us,” said Chumbley, throwing himself upon one of the divans with a sigh of relief, for the Inche Maida had pointed to the seat.
“They will not come to fetch you,” said the Princess, smiling.
“Why not?” said Hilton, sharply. “I tell you they will search till we are found, and then you destroy yourself by having us here.”
“Yes,” said the Princess, with her eyes half-closed; “they will search. They have searched, and have given it up. They found a small boat overset upon a bank of sand; part of your clothes were in it, and they think you were both drowned.”
“Confusion!” cried Hilton, fiercely.