‘The Sultaun thinks thou art at the camp,’ said the attendant; ‘’twas but yesterday he spoke of thee.’
‘He will soon know why I am here,’ replied the Jemadar; ‘but begone! I have neither time nor inclination to bandy words with thee.’
The man went and returned. ‘Go,’ he said, ‘in the name of Sheikh Suddoo, the father of mischief; I would not be present at your interview with the Sultaun for much. Away! he hath sent for thee.’
How the heart of the coward beat as he heard these words; but there was now no means of retreat, and he proceeded.
The Sultaun sat in a small room which communicated with the private apartments of the palace; the walls were plain, but the ceiling was richly painted and ornamented, and the casements and shutters of the windows also. On the floor there was spread a clean white calico covering; and at one end, upon a carpet supported by cushions, surrounded by heaps of papers, and holding in his left hand a stiff leather case, which supported the paper on which he was writing, sat the Sultaun.
Jaffar Sahib hesitated for a moment at the door, for he had looked through a chink, and seen that there was a frown on the Sultaun’s brow, and that peculiar expression about his mouth which was always the precursor of mischief; but there was no time allowed him for reflection. The Sultaun had heard and called to him; and the Jemadar, hastily entering, at once threw himself at full length flat on the ground before him, with his arms and legs extended, and lay there motionless and silent.
‘Why, Madur-bukht, what ails thee? in the name of the Prophet speak and tell; we thought thee at the camp. Why hast thou come here without leave? why hast thou transgressed orders, and the regulations of our army, which were drawn up with our own wisdom and are perfect models of military knowledge. Speak, O Kumbukht! O man without a destiny! why art thou come?’
‘Pardon, O Asylum of the World!’ cried the Jemadar, not daring to look up; ‘thy slave’s fault is great, and his liver is turned to water; I crave forgiveness ere I can tell my errand. My lord is generous—he will forgive magnanimously and will not punish the error of his slave.’
‘Get up, in the name of the Prophet! and tell thy tale; do not lie snivelling there like a Hindoo: by Alla! thou remindest me of the Brahmin who said thou hadst plundered him, and whom we—but no matter. Get up! or by the Apostle I will prick thee with my sword;’ and he drew it.
‘Alla and the Prophet be my refuge, and the saints Hassan and Hoosein!’ cried the man, rising up and joining his hands, while he trembled fearfully; ‘if thou art against me, O Sultaun, I have no refuge in the world; may I be your sacrifice! I will speak the truth; why should I tell a lie?’