"What is his name?"
"The Maharajah of Bangapore, sir," returned the wise man of the exchequer, whose task promised to be an easy one in the future, judging by the vast amount of spoil which had already fallen into his lap.
"The Maharajah of Bangapore?" repeated the monarch, raising his hand to his forehead for an instant, as though he would recall some long forgotten episode. "Is he amongst the company present?"
"I believe so."
"Ask him to stand forth."
And the Indian prince, hearing his name called in English, stepped forth and confronted his old enemy of the Mesopotamian campaign. When their eyes met a flash of fire, more eloquent than words, revealed what was in each man's mind. The prince expected to be tortured to death and was prepared for it, for, like all his people, he was brave as well as fierce. At last the robber spoke.
"Prince Jaipur, you are an enemy of mine," he said.
"I know it!"
"Do you expect mercy after the way your tribesmen massacred my men at Kerbela?"
The maharajah shrugged his shoulders, but disdained to reply to this upstart robber chief who styled himself a king.