‘The goddess will be pleased, O Sultaun—she will drink their blood. To-night, to-night she will put fear into their hearts; she will send rain—the river will fill—they will be cut off.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the Sultaun, ‘and twelve base-born Feringhees will go to hell. Who is without—Jaffar?’
‘Refuge of the world! I am here.’
‘Hast thou obeyed the orders I gave thee yesterday?’
‘Protector of the poor! I have; not one lives now—Feringhee, Moslim, or Hindoo; the prisoners died in the night. It was hard work, there were so many, but it was done,’ and he chuckled. ‘There were twelve spared—the last twelve.’
‘Good: if the Fort is taken, the kafirs will look in vain for their brethren. Now go thou to the prison, take the twelve sons of perdition who were captured in the sortie, bind them hand and foot, and convey them to the temple. Thou art ready, Runga Swamee? As the sun rises, their blood must flow, one by one. The men are ready, the priests wait, the swords are sharp—what more? Enough—go! thou understandest, Jaffar?’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘Hast thou sent for him—for Compton?’
‘The men go to-morrow.’
‘Good: when he comes he shall be the next offering, if thou wantest more, Pundit.’