“Don’t I!” replied the Captain. “I say, Curtis,” he continued, addressing a lieutenant of his own company, “you relieved the man who so nearly let the old Rajah loose.”
“Ay, poor old fellow; he’s dead now, and can’t ask his old, well-known question.”
“What was it, Curtis? What did he ask, and who was he?”
“Well, wait till I have lit this cigar, and I’ll tell you,” answered Curtis. “We have an hour yet before the moon gets low, and those black palkywallers are making such a row.”
The cigar was lighted, the brandy-and-water carefully mixed and placed on an adjoining table within reach, and comfortably settling himself on his seat, Lieutenant Curtis began his history.
“On the top of yonder sugar-loaf hill, in the centre of Bellary Fort, a prisoner was confined, and the daily duty of the officer of the guard was to visit him. He was an old, worn-out man, whose hair had grown grey a captive, and I can tell you, Harris, it was no joke to have to plod up the steps cut in the face of the rock every morning, to ask the old man the stereotyped question, ‘Did he want anything?’
“He had been a sovereign of some petty State, and our people wanted the land, so they took it, and to keep its former owner quiet, confined him to the top of yon granite rock; so daily the subaltern on guard mounted the steps, and asked the usual question, every time receiving the same reply,—
“‘Yes, I want my liberty and the land you stole from me, nothing else!’”
“And did he ever get it?” asked Harris.
“He very nearly did,” replied Captain Hughes. “But go on with your tale, Curtis.”