“I promised?  Truly, I promised that, if you were bent on accompanying me to these shores, I would use my influence to procure you employment with one of my friends among the native princes.  Well, I have kept my word; firmavi fidem, as the Latin hath it.  Angria is my friend; I have used my influence with him; and you are now in the service of one of the most potent of Indian princes.  True, your service is but beginning.  It may be arduous at first; it may be long ab ovo usque ad mala; the egg may be hard, and the apples, perchance, somewhat sour; but as you become inured to your duties, you will learn resignation and patience, and—­”

“Don’t!” burst out Desmond, unable to endure the smooth-flowing periods of the man now self-confessed a villain.  “What does it mean?  Tell me plainly; am I a slave?”

“Servulus, non servus, my dear boy.  What is the odds whether you serve Dick Burke, a booby farmer, or Tulaji Angria, a prince and a man of intelligence?  Yet there is a difference, and I would give you a word of counsel.  Angria is an oriental, and a despot; it were best to serve him with all diligence, or—­”

He finished the sentence with a meaning grimace.

“Mr. Diggle, you can’t mean it,” said Desmond.  “Don’t leave me here!  I implore you to release me.  What have I ever done to you?  Don’t leave me in this awful place.”

Diggle smiled and began to move away.  At the sight of his malicious smile the prisoner’s despair was swept away before a tempest of rage.

“You scoundrel!  You shameless scoundrel!”

The words, low spoken and vibrant with contempt, reached Diggle when he was some distance from the shed.  He turned and sauntered back.

“Heia! contumeliosae voces!  ’Tis pretty abuse.  My young friend, I must withdraw my ears from such shocking language.  But stay! if you have any message for Sir Willoughby, your squire, whose affections you have so diligently cultivated to the prejudice of his nearest and dearest, it were well for you to give it.  ’Tis your last opportunity; for those who enter Angria’s service enjoy a useful but not a long career.  And before I return to Gheria from a little journey I am about to make, you may have joined the majority of those who have tempted fate in this insalubrious clime.  Horae momento cita mors yen it—­you remember the phrase?”

Diggle leaned against the wooden wall, watching with malicious enjoyment the effect of his words.  Desmond was very pale; all his strength seemed to have deserted him.  Finding that his taunts provoked no reply, Diggle went on: 

“Time presses, my young friend.  You will be logged a deserter from the Good Intent.  ’Tis my fervent hope you never fall into the hands of Captain Barker; as you know, he is a terrible man when roused.”

Waving his gloved hand, he moved away.  Desmond did not watch his departure.  Falling back from the window, he threw himself upon the ground, and gave way to a long fit of black despair.