“Ay, in truth, he would, Lallcheen, if he were weak enough to wed a slave’s daughter; but of that he dreams not. If I give thee liberty, the lovely Agha must be mine upon my own terms.”
“King, I am your bondman, but not your pander. I despise liberty upon the terms you offer it. My child would scorn an impure alliance even with a mightier monarch than Gheias-ood-Deen. She has suitors of proud lineage, who woo her with honourable love.”
“Then my offer is refused? ’Tis well! the power that governs an empire is not to be slighted with impunity. You will repent this rash decision,—retire.”
Lallcheen did retire more than ever incensed against his royal master. He was stung deeply at the insult offered to his child, in the supposition that she would barter her purity for her father’s freedom. He felt himself, moreover, grievously wronged by his royal master harbouring the thought that he could be base enough to sell his daughter’s honour at any price. It was an injury neither to be forgiven nor forgotten. He quitted the royal presence with a throbbing heart and burning brow;—the blood had receded from his cheek and lips when he entered the apartment of his child. He found her singing an air in a voice that would have enchanted the nightingales of Cashmere, or drawn a tear of sympathy from the eye of a Peri. It was a strain of exquisite tenderness: the parent’s emotions were calmed at the sound of her celestial voice; but the blood returned not to those channels from which the silent struggles of passion had banished it.
“My father,” said Agha, as he entered; “why so pale?”
“I have been disturbed, my child, by the king.”
“How?”
“He would give me freedom.”
“Well, would not that be a blessed deliverance?”
“At the price of my child’s honour?”