lately captured by Commodore James, was dashed by the news that that fort had been handed over by him to the Marathas.  Moreover, such was the rivalry among the various European nations competing for trade in India that he was by no means sure of a friendly reception if he should succeed in gaining a Portuguese or Dutch settlement.  Dark stories were told of Portuguese dealings with Englishmen, and the Dutch bore no good repute for their treatment of prisoners.

It was a matter of wonder to Desmond that none of his companions ever hinted at escape.  He could not imagine that any man could be a slave without feeling a yearning for liberty; yet these men lived through the unvarying round; eating, toiling, sleeping, without any apparent mental revolt.  He could only surmise that all manliness and spirit had been crushed out of them, and from motives of prudence he forbore to speak of freedom.

But one evening, a sultry August evening when the shed was like an oven, and, bathed in sweat, he felt utterly limp and depressed, he asked the Babu in English whether anyone had ever escaped out of Angria’s clutches.  Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti glanced anxiously around, as if fearful that the others might understand.  But they lay listless on their charpoys; they knew no English, and there was nothing in Desmond’s tone to quicken their hopelessness.

“No, sahib,” said the Bengali; “such escapade, if successful, is beyond my ken.  There have been attempts; cui bono?  Nobody is an anna the better.  Nay, the last state of such misguided men is even worse; they die suffering very ingenious torture.”

Desmond had been amazed at the Babu’s command of English until he learned that the man was an omnivorous reader, and in his leisure at Calcutta had spent many an hour in poring over such literature as his master’s scanty library afforded, the works of Mr. Samuel Johnson and Mr. Henry Fielding in particular.

At this moment Desmond said no more, but in the dead of night, when all were asleep, he leaned over to the Babu’s charpoy and gently nudged him.

“Surendra Nath!” he whispered.

“Who calls?” returned the Babu.

“Listen.  Have you yourself ever thought of escaping?”

“Peace and quietness, sir.  He will hear.”

“Who?”

“The Gujarati, sir—­Fuzl Khan.”

“But he doesn’t understand.  And if he did, what then?”

“He was the single man, positively unique, who was spared among six attempting escape last rains.”

“They did make an attempt, then.  Why was he spared?”

“That, sir, deponent knoweth not.  The plot was carried to Angria.”

“How?”

“That also is dark as pitch.  But Fuzl Khan was spared, that we know.  No man can trust his vis-a-vis.  No man is now so bold to discuss such matters.”

“Is that why we are all chained up at night?”

“That, sir, is the case.  It is since then our limbs are shackled.”