“He may not have the Evil Eye,” Farag's uncle grunted, “but his devil led him too certainly to question my land-title. Ask him whether he still doubts my land-title?”
“Or mine, or mine?” cried the elders.
“What odds? He is an afflicted of God,” Farag called. “Remember the tale I told you.”
“Yes, but he is an Englishman, and doubtless of influence, or Our Excellency would not entertain him. Bid the down-country jackass ask him.”
“Sar,” said Abdul, “these people, much fearing they may be turned out of their land in consequence of your remarks. Therefore they ask you to make promise no bad consequences following your visit.”
Mr. Groombride held his breath and turned purple. Then he stamped his foot.
“Tell them,” he cried, “that if a hair of any one of their heads is touched by any official on any account whatever, all England shall ring with it. Good God! What callous oppression! The dark places of the earth are full of cruelty.” He wiped his face, and throwing out his arms cried: “Tell them, oh! tell the poor serfs not to be afraid of me. Tell them I come to redress their wrongs—not, heaven knows, to add to their burden.”
The long-drawn gurgle of the practised public speaker pleased them much.
“That is how the new water-tap runs out in the kennel,” said Farag. “The Excellency Our Governor entertains him that he may make sport. Make him say the mirth-moving speech.”
“What did he say about my land-titles?” Farag's uncle was not to be turned.