Coming into a part of the city that appeared to be suburban, his keeper stopped before a building that seemed a cross between a barrack and a bird-cage. It was almost surrounded by a wall so high that it hid the building from view, except directly in front. There it could be seen, with its small hermetically-closed windows, each covered with a wooden trellis. It bore the aspect of a somewhat forbidding prison.
“Konak—palace,” said the keeper, breaking silence for the first time.
“A konak; a palace! eh?” repeated Lancey, in surprise; “more like a jail, I should say. ’Owever, customs differ. Oos palace may it be, now?”
“Pasha; Sanda Pasha,” replied the man, touching a spring or bell in the wall; “you goes in.”
As he spoke, a small door was opened by an armed black slave, to whom he whispered a few words, and then, stepping back, motioned to his companion to enter.
“Arter you, sir,” said Lancey, with a polite bow.
But as the man continued gravely to point, and the black slave to hold the door open, he forbore to press the matter, and stepped in. The gate was shut with a bang, followed by a click of bolts. He found, on looking round, that the keeper had been shut out, and he was alone with the armed negro.
“You’re in for it now, Jacob my boy,” muttered Lancey to himself, as he measured the negro with a sharp glance, and slowly turned up the wristband of his shirt with a view to prompt action. But the sable porter, far from meditating an assault, smiled graciously as he led the way to the principal door of the palace, or, as the poor fellow felt sure it must be, the prison.