How long he lay in this agony he knew not.  But he was at last roused by the opening of the door.  It was almost dark.  Rising to his feet, he saw a number of men hustled into the shed.  Ranged along one of the walls, they squatted on the floor, and for some minutes afterwards Desmond heard the clank of irons and the harsh grating of a key.  Then a big Maratha came to him, searched him thoroughly, clapped iron bands upon his ankles, and locked the chains to staples in the wall.  Soon the door was shut, barred, and locked, and Desmond found himself a prisoner with eight others.

For a little they spoke among themselves, in the low tones of men utterly spent and dispirited.  Then all was silent, and they slept.  But Desmond lay wide awake, waiting for the morning.

The shed was terribly hot.  Air came only through the one narrow opening, and before an hour was past the atmosphere was foul, seeming the more horrible to Desmond by contrast with the freshness of his life on the ocean.  Mosquitoes nipped him until he could scarcely endure the intense irritation.  He would have given anything for a little water; but though he heard a sentry pacing up and down outside, he did not venture to call to him, and could only writhe in heat and torture, longing for the dawn, yet fearing it and what it might bring forth.

Worn and haggard after his sleepless night, Desmond had scarcely spirit enough to look with curiosity on his fellow prisoners when the shed was faintly lit by the morning sun.  But he saw that the eight men, all natives, were lying on crude charpoys {mat beds} along the wall, each man chained to a staple like his own.  One of the men was awake; and, catching Desmond’s lusterless eyes fixed upon him, he sat up and returned his gaze.

“Your Honor is an English gentleman?”

The words caused Desmond to start:  they were so unexpected in such a place.  The Indian spoke softly and carefully, as if anxious not to awaken his companions.

“Yes,” replied Desmond.  “Who are you?”

“My name, sir, is Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti.  I was lately a clerk in the employ of a burra {great} sahib, English factor, at Calcutta.”

“How did you get here?”

“That, sahib, is a moving tale.  While on a visit of condolence to my respectable uncle and aunt at Chittagong, I was kidnapped by Sandarband piratical dogs.  Presto!—­at that serious crisis a Dutch ship makes apparition and rescues me; but my last state is more desperate than the first.  The Dutch vessel will not stop to replace me on mother earth; she is for Bombay, across the kala pani {black water}, as we say.  I am not a swimmer; besides, what boots it?—­we are ten miles from land, to say nothing of sharks and crocodiles and the lordly tiger.  So I perforce remain, to the injury of my caste, which forbids navigation.  But see the issue.  The Dutch ship is assaulted; grabs and gallivats galore swarm upon the face of the waters; all is confusion worse confounded; in a brace of shakes we are in the toils.  It is now two years since this untoward catastrophe.  With the crew I am conveyed hither and eat the bitter crust of servitude.  Some of the Dutchmen are consigned to other forts in possession of the Pirate, and three serve here in his state barge.”