“Talk sensibly,” said Hilton, in French; “why do you go on in that flippant way—why do you keep on arguing with her?”
“Because you will not,” retorted Chumbley, in the same language; “so hold your tongue. You see, Princess,” he continued, “you don’t understand the British nature, and this is how it is. If we fellows could not get those positions you offer, we might make a struggle for them; but as you offer them, and tell us we must have them, you set all our bristles erect, and we vow we will not have them at any price. No: my dear madam, you have gone the wrong way to work, and it will not do.”
The Inche Maida recoiled, as if the obstacles she was encountering stung her to the quick. She had evidently been under the impression that her patience and the treatment to which she had subjected her prisoners would have had a different effect, whereas they were as disdainful and obstinate as ever.
“You will think better of this,” she cried, impatiently.
Hilton made a sign as if to negative her words.
“Then if you reject kindness I shall try harshness,” she cried, her dark eyes flashing as she spoke. “I am Princess here, and my slaves obey me. I will have you starved into submission.”
Hilton smiled.
“Tell her she doesn’t know what an Englishman is, Chumbley,” he said, scornfully; “or no—be silent. Do not insult her, but treat her words with contempt.”
“He need not tell me,” said the Inche Maida, starting up and looking furious, as her eyes literally glittered in her rage. “I know, sir, what some Englishmen are—cold, proud, and haughty; men who think themselves almost gods in their conceit; while all who are not pale-faced like themselves they treat as dogs. Go to your prison, sir, and you shall learn that, proud and contemptuous as you are, there are others who can be as proud and cold.”
Chumbley was about to speak, but she waved him back.