“What means the Chinese dog? Who is this man that has come to us in the guise of a merchant and a sailor?”
“Prabu, the slave, the descendant of the traitor Surapati,” cried the Chinese.
Seeing the chief regarding him, as if in astonishment and unbelief, Prabu advanced, and with an air of dignity, said—
“O great chief, this Chinese dog is a thief and a slayer of men for hire; but his words are good. I am he they call Prabu, the descendant of Surapati.”
The chief arose, I thought, from the mild expression in his eye and general manner, to pay his obeisance to Prabu, but quickly, sharply, he said,—
“Then art thou a traitor and a rebel to our good friends the Dutch—seize these dogs, and thy lives shall answer for their safety,” he added, to his guards. Whereupon we were all three secured, and taken at once to a small, dark, fetid-smelling dungeon.
“It has come at last; I said it would,” said Martin, surlily, as the guards fastened the door after quitting us.
“What is written is written,” was Prabu’s answer.
“That’s true, but it doesn’t follow that it can’t be scratched out.”
“Shame, Martin!” I exclaimed, “we have long since accepted our position, it is cowardice to complain now.”