ence, 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.

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,