“Dear Martin,” she replied, “you frighten me with that fierce look. These ladies are the daughter of the Prince and her attendants, and I am here as the friend and companion of the Princess. But, my dear cousin, how rejoiced am I to see you, for they told me you were dead.”
“Dead!” he replied, as fiercely as before; “no, not at all dead!—but, I tell you, Marie, I either soon shall be, or take you from such heathen companionship. But, dear Marie, what is this Prince like?—is he young or old?—good-natured or cruel? How is it that you are in his household?”
“I don’t know, Martin. I have never seen him.”
“Don’t know!—have never seen him?” repeated my brother, incredulously.
“No,” she replied; “but I shall now for the first time. See, he is coming toward us; some of the slaves have warned him of his daughter’s danger.”
It had been as Marie surmised; warned of his child’s peril, the Pangeran had dismounted from his elephant, and, taking an attendant’s horse, now came galloping up to us. The slain mahout—the dead tiger—his daughter and her companions apparently in close converse, at once told him the story of her late peril, and to whom he was indebted for her present safety.
“Allah be praised! my daughter is safe,” he exclaimed. “To the brave young sahibs, whoever they are, I am indebted for the preservation of her dear life; let them ask what they will that it is in my power to bestow, it shall not be refused.” But, gazing upon him as he spoke, we were astonished. It would be impossible to describe the surprise expressed upon the features of Marie and my brother.
“By jingo, it’s Madame Ebberfeld’s cousin, the Prince; we are then in the very heart of the conspiracy,” said Martin. The Prince, in his turn surprised at the words, said,—
“Who, then, are you, who speak so glibly of Madame Ebberfeld, and her cousin, the Prince?” Then, as if suddenly remembering our features, he exclaimed,—
“Ah, I see—God is great! the brave sahibs are Madame’s nephews.”