“Yes, sir, of the dead—the man who plotted to rob me of my country, and make you believe in him and mistrust me.”
“But you said dead,” cried Sir Charles, who spoke with difficulty, as he supported a wounded arm with a bleeding and roughly bandaged hand.
“Yes, sir. Rajah Suleiman died bravely in his final charge.”
“Are you sure of that?” said Sir Charles excitedly.
“Yes, sir; I saw him fall. But one word, Sir Charles: I should like to hear from your own lips that you believe in me now.”
“Believe in you, Prince! You have proved that my suspicions have all been wrong. I ask your forgiveness, sir; and let me be the first to hail you as the new Rajah of Suleiman’s dominions, combined with your own.”
“You mean this, Sir Charles?” cried the young man, who for the moment lost his calm, Eastern composure.
“Mean it, sir? I repeat it in the name of Her Majesty the Queen, whose representative I am.—Yes, what is it, Major?—Quick, some one—the Doctor! He is fainting.”
“No, no,” said the Major feebly; “only a little overcome. Water, from the Doctor’s well. Don’t fetch him. He has too many brave fellows to attend to yonder. Ah! thanks, Rajah. You carry a water-bottle, then, as we do.”
“I was never more glad to follow a good old English custom than now.”