“Tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you,” said King Stanislaus.
His words in no sense were a threat, for it is always the worse for anyone who does not tell the truth. But they only served to increase the fears of the poor, frightened wretch who shook as if he had added St. Vitus dance to all his other symptoms.
“Spare my life!” he whined, with his teeth clicking against each other like castenets. “Oh, please, sir, spare my life! Ask me anything you like, and I will answer you. Yes, and though it is very hard for me to do so, I will speak the truth. Let me be your slave, and fan you, and black your boots!”
“Where is your master?”
“He is gone.”
“Yes, we know that already. Where has he gone?”
The Demon Usher looked around timidly as though to assure himself that neither Dragonfel nor any of his followers was within hearing, and then said, with an air of great cunning:
“If I tell you, will you let me go?”
“Yes,” said King Stanislaus. “I give you my promise.”
“Then I will tell you,” said the Demon Usher. “He has flown with his captives to his mine.”