The Englishman turned in an instant, at the blow he had received, and raised his arm to strike again; the Sultaun observed the action and spoke.
‘Hold!’ he cried; ‘do not strike, O Feringhee, and do some of ye seize that officious rascal, and give him ten blows upon his back with a cane.’
The fellow was seized and hustled out, while the Englishman continued standing where he had been arrested.
‘Advance!’ cried the Sultaun.
Some of those near tried to persuade him not to allow the Englishman to approach.
‘Pah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I have caused the deaths of too many with arms in their hands, to fear this unarmed wretch. Advance then, that we may speak with thee conveniently; be not afraid, we will do thee no harm.’
‘I fear thee not, O Sultaun,’ said Herbert Compton (for so in very truth it was), advancing, and bowing stiffly yet respectfully, ‘I fear thee not; what canst thou do to me that I should fear thee?’
‘I could order thee to be put to death this instant,’ said the Sultaun sharply; while others cried out fiercely that the speech was insolent, and reviled him.
Herbert looked round him proudly, and many a one among the crowd of flatterers quailed as his clear blue eye rested on them. ‘I am not insolent!’ he exclaimed; ‘if my speech is plain and honest, take ye a lesson from it, cowards! who could insult one so helpless as I am;’ and he drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms, awaiting what the Sultaun should say to him. His dress was mean, of the coarsest white cotton cloth of the country; his head was bare, and so were his feet; but in spite of this, there was a dignity in his appearance which inspired involuntary respect, nay awe to many.
The time which had elapsed had but little altered him, and if indeed there was a change, it was for the better! his appearance was more manly, his frame more strongly knit. His face was thinner and paler than when we last parted with him at the capitulation of Bednore, from whence, with the rest of his comrades, he had been hurried into captivity; but four years had passed since then, and his weary imprisonment, chequered by no event save the death or murder of a companion or a fellow-captive, would have utterly worn down a spirit less buoyant and intrepid than Herbert’s.