“Why, indeed, sir,” said I, following with his humour in the hope of bringing a smile to Mrs Fraser’s face, “I should have been sore tempted but for the remembrance of a remark of my friend Mr Samuel Johnson. Asked whether he regarded it as expedient that a young divine should make a runaway match with the object of his affections, ‘Why no, sir,’ he cried, ‘for who should then perform the ceremony?’ Sure that would have been my case also.”
Perceiving my design, as I can’t help believing, the lady smiled slightly, but Mr Watts took advantage of her cheerfulness to dash her spirits afresh. “Our next business, Mr Fraser,” he said, “will be to devise some plan for getting your lady safely out of the city.”
“Sure, sir,” said I, “the Moors would not venture to lay hands on the wife of a British officer?”
“I would not recommend Mrs Fraser to ride out openly and put the matter to the test,” says Mr Watts, “since even if they were disposed to respect a British officer’s wife, what could be easier than to make her his widow?”
“Oh, sir!” cried Mrs Fraser, starting up from her seat.
“I don’t purpose to assist ’em to do it, madam. I should fancy ’twould be quite possible to smuggle you out dressed as a boy.”
The lady blushed deeply, and was silent, but her spouse interposed—
“Pray, sir, oblige us with some other expedient if you can. That you name is excessively repugnant to Mrs Fraser’s feelings.”
“I’ll take Beeby Fraser in a palanqueen openly through the city and out at the gate,” put in the Tartar, “if she’ll wear a notch-girl’s dress.”
“Who asked you to speak, Mirza Shah?” cried Mr Watts angrily, while a deeper crimson spread itself over the poor lady’s face.