‘Never will I forget thee, O benefactor!’ cried Kasim, completely overcome; ‘never will I allow a word to be said against thee; and in my home—in the wide world—wherever I go, men shall know of the generosity of the lion of Mysore. I go—my prayers are for thee and thy prosperity night and day.’
Kasim made low obeisances as he passed out of the audience-hall; he cast a last look round the well-known place; what scenes he had witnessed there, of joy and misery, frantic enthusiasm and fierce bigotry, torture, and even death! Dreams, visions, lewd and vile torrents of abuse against the English; poems, letters of war, of intrigue, of policy, of every conceivable kind. Enough! they were gone for ever, and he was glad that the feverish existence was at an end; henceforth before him was the peaceful and quiet existence he had so long coveted.
The horse, richly caparisoned, stood at the palace-gate, and men bearing the sword and shield. Kasim bounded into the saddle, and before the admiring spectators, many of them his kind friends, caused him to curvet and bound to show how perfectly the animal was trained; and then saluting them he rode on. Next morning he was on his way beyond the Fort.
That night Jaffar was alone with the Sultaun; they had conversed long on various matters. At last Jaffar exclaimed, ‘May I be your sacrifice! it was wrong to let Kasim Ali go.’
‘Why?’ said Tippoo.
‘He knows too much,’ was the reply.
‘But he is faithful, Jaffar?’
The fellow laughed. ‘He is a good friend to the English.’
‘To the English?’
‘Ay! remember how often he has spoken in their favour, how often he has bearded others who reviled them. May I be your sacrifice! he is unfaithful, or why should he leave thee?’