“You shall deliver into my hand, before the dark half of the next moon, the man”—­Isaacs lowered his voice to a whisper, barely audible in the still room, where the only sound heard as he paused was the tread of the sowar on the verandah outside—­ “the man Shere Ali, formerly Emir of Afghanistan, now hidden in your palace of Baithopoor.  Him you shall give to me safe and untouched at the place which I shall choose, northwards from here, in the pass towards Keitung.  And there shall not be an hair of his head touched, and if it is good in my eyes I will give him up to the British; and if it is good in my eyes, I will slay him, and you shall ask no questions.  And if you refuse to do this I will go to the great lord sahib and tell him of your doings, and you will be arrested before this night and shall not escape.  But if you consent and put your hand to this agreement, I will speak no word, and you shall depart in peace; and moreover, for the sake of the true believers in your kingdom I will remit to you the whole of the interest on your debt; and the bond you shall pay at your convenience.  I have spoken, do you answer me.”  Isaacs calmly took from his pocket two rolls covered with Persian writing, and lighting a cigarette, proceeded to peruse them carefully, to detect any flaw or error in their composition.  The face of the old maharajah betrayed great emotion, but he bravely pulled away at his hookah and tried to think over the situation.  In the hope of delivering himself from his whole debt he had rashly given himself into the hands of a man who hated him, though he had discovered that hatred too late.  He had flattered himself that the loan had been made out of friendly feeling and a desire for his interest and support; he found that Isaacs had lent the money, for real or imaginary religious motives, in the interest of his co-religionists.  I sat silently watching the varying passions as they swept over the repulsive face of the old man.  The silence must have lasted a quarter of an hour.

“Give me the covenant,” he said at last, “for I am in the tiger’s clutches.  I will sign it, since I must.  But it shall be requited to you, Abdul Hafiz; and when your body has been eaten of jackals and wild pigs in the forest, your soul shall enter into the shape of a despised sweeper, and you and your off-spring shall scavenge the streets of the cities of my kingdom and of the kingdom of my son, and son’s son, to ten thousand generations.”  A Hindoo cannot express scorn more deadly or hate more lasting than this.  Isaacs smiled, but there was a concentrated look in his face, relentless and hard, as he answered the insult.

“I am not going to bandy words with you.  But if you are not quick about signing that paper I may change my mind, and send for the Angrezi sowars from Peterhof.  So you had better hurry yourself.”  Isaacs produced a small inkhorn and a reed pen from his pocket.  “Sign,” he said, rising to his feet “before that soldier outside passes the window three times, or I will deliver you to the British.”