Pierre, a lank lad in motley, hereupon appeared with a live pigeon, which immediately escaped from his hands and perched on the top of the proscenium.  Caraba Radokala yelled; the little man in the cocked hat raved; and Pierre, in default of more pigeons, contritely reappeared with a lump of raw beef, into which his majesty ravenously dug his royal teeth.  The pigeon, meanwhile, dressed its feathers and looked complacently down, as if used to the incident.

“Having fed, Caraba Radokala will now be quite gentle and good-humored,” said the showman.  “If any lady desires to shake hands with him, she may do so with perfect safety.  Will any lady embrace the opportunity?”

A faint sound of tittering was heard in various parts of the booth; but no one came forward.

“Will no lady be persuaded?  Well, then, is there any gentleman present who speaks Ashantee?”

Mueller gave me a dig with his elbow, and started to his feet.

“Yes,” he replied, loudly.  “I do.”

Every head was instantly turned in our direction.

The showman collapsed with astonishment.  Even the captive, despite his ignorance of the French tongue, looked considerably startled.

“Comment!” stammered the cocked hat.  “Monsieur speaks Ashantee?”

“Fluently.”

“Is it permitted to inquire how and when monsieur acquired this very unusual accomplishment?”

“I have spoken Ashantee from my infancy,” replied Mueller, with admirable aplomb.  “I was born at sea, brought up in an undiscovered island, twice kidnapped by hostile tribes before attaining the age of ten years, and have lived among savage nations all my life.”

A murmur of admiration ran through the audience, and Mueller became, for the time, an object of livelier interest than Caraba Radokala himself.  Seeing this, the indignant monarch executed a warlike pas, and rattled his chains fiercely.

“In that case, monsieur, you had better come upon the stage, and speak to his majesty,” said the showman reluctantly.

“With all the pleasure in life.”

“But I warn you that his temper is uncertain.”

“Bah!” said Mueller, working his way round through the crowd, “I’m not afraid of his temper.”

“As monsieur pleases—­but, if monsieur offends him, I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

“All right—­give us a hand up, mon vieux!” And Muller, having clambered upon the stage, made a bow to the audience and a salaam to his majesty.

“Chickahominy chowdar bang,” said he, by way of opening the conversation.

The ex-king of Ashantee scowled, folded his arms, and maintained a haughty silence.

“Hic hac horum, high cockalorum,” continued Mueller, with exceeding suavity.

The captive monarch stamped impatiently, ground his teeth, but still made no reply.

“Monsieur had better not aggravate him,” said the showman.  “On the contrary—­I am overwhelming him with civilities Now observe—­I condole with him upon his melancholy position.  I inquire after his wives and children; and I remark how uncommonly well he is looking.”