Of course Bob could not understand the native tongue, but he quickly saw that in some way the shrewd Milesian had got things on a most friendly basis with the tribe and its leaders.
"I wish I could get nearer and attract his attention," thought Bob. "I want him to know I have left the public square. I'll venture it. Pat!"
The next moment Bob Vilett was sorry he had spoken. He had not realized that to utter a word unbidden in the royal council room without royal permission was to court the severest public censure.
Four guards grabbed him up in a moment. All those around the royal daïs looked towards the present center of commotion in amazement.
Bob struggled in the grasp of his fierce captors, but was hampered by the bundles he carried. Suddenly one of the guards discovered he had shoes on. They tore away the garment encircling him. Some hurried words were called out to the king. In stern tones that monarch responded.
Bob could tell from the menacing manner of the guards that he was being borne away to punishment.
"Stoodles! Pat Stoodles!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
"Aha!" he heard Stoodles exclaim, and then the Milesian added words in the native language.
The guards looked amazed. They received a new order from the king. Bob was carried to the foot of the daïs.
"Make a bow," suggested Stoodles, and Bob did so. Stoodles no longer wore the mourning garb. That on Bob was riddled.