Holkar, as I made these uncomplimentary remarks, gave a scream of rage, and, drawing his scimitar, rushed on to despatch me at once (it was the very thing I wished for), when the third person sprang forward, and seizing his arm, cried—­

“Papa! oh, save him!” It was Puttee Rooge!  “Remember,” continued she, “his misfortunes—­remember, oh, remember my—­love!”—­and here she blushed, and putting one finger into her mouth, and banging down her head, looked the very picture of modest affection.

Holkar sulkily sheathed his scimitar, and muttered, “’Tis better as it is; had I killed him now, I had spared him the torture.  None of this shameless fooling, Puttee Rooge,” continued the tyrant, dragging her away.  “Captain Gahagan dies three hours from hence.”  Puttee Rooge gave one scream and fainted—­her father and the Vizier carried her off between them; nor was I loth to part with her, for, with all her love, she was as ugly as the deuce.

They were gone—­my fate was decided.  I had but three hours more of life:  so I flung myself again on the sofa, and fell profoundly asleep.  As it may happen to any of my readers to be in the same situation, and to be hanged themselves, let me earnestly entreat them to adopt this plan of going to sleep, which I for my part have repeatedly found to be successful.  It saves unnecessary annoyance, it passes away a great deal of unpleasant time, and it prepares one to meet like a man the coming catastrophe.

*****

Three o’clock came:  the sun was at this time making his appearance in the heavens, and with it came the guards, who were appointed to conduct me to the torture.  I woke, rose, was carried out, and was set on the very white donkey on which Loll Mahommed was conducted through the camp after he was bastinadoed.  Bobbachy Bahawder rode behind me, restored to his rank and state; troops of cavalry hemmed us in on all sides; my ass was conducted by the common executioner:  a crier went forward, shouting out, “Make way for the destroyer of the faithful—­he goes to bear the punishment of his crimes.”  We came to the fatal plain:  it was the very spot whence I had borne away the elephant, and in full sight of the fort.  I looked towards it.  Thank heaven!  King George’s banner waved on it still—­a crowd were gathered on the walls—­the men, the dastards who had deserted me—­and women, too.  Among the latter I thought I distinguished one who—­O gods! the thought turned me sick—­I trembled and looked pale for the first time.

“He trembles! he turns pale,” shouted out Bobbachy Bahawder, ferociously exulting over his conquered enemy.

“Dog!” shouted I—­(I was sitting with my head to the donkey’s tail, and so looked the Bobbachy full in the face)—­“not so pale as you looked when I felled you with this arm—­not so pale as your women looked when I entered your harem!” Completely chop-fallen, the Indian ruffian was silent:  at any rate, I had done for him.