The others assented eagerly.  Then Desmond told his wondering hearers the secret of the key, and during several hours of that quiet night he discussed with them in whispers the details of the scheme which he had worked out.  At intervals the sentry passed and flashed his light through the opening in the wall; but at these moments every man was lying motionless upon his charpoy, and not a sound was audible save a snore.

Next day when Desmond, having finished his midday meal of rice and mangoes, had returned to his workshop, Diggle sauntered in.

“Ah, my young friend,” he said in his quiet voice and with his usual smile, “doubtless you have expected a visit from me.  Night brings counsel.  I did not visit you yesterday, thinking that after sleeping over the amiable and generous proposition made to you by my friend Angria you would view it in another light.  I trust that during the nocturnal hours you have come to perceive the advantages of choosing the discreet part.  Let us reason together.”

There were several natives with them in the workshop, but none of them understood English, and the two Englishmen could talk at ease.

“Reason!” said Desmond in reply to Diggle’s last sentence.  “If you are going to talk of what your pirate friend spoke of yesterday, it is mere waste of time.  I shall never agree.”

“Words, my young friend, mere words!  You will be one of us yet.  You will never have such a chance again.  Why, in a few years you will be able to return to England, if you will, a rich man, a very nawab {governor}.  My friend Angria has his faults; nemo est sine culpa:  but he is at least generous.  An instance!  The man who took the chief part in the capture of the Dutchman two years ago—­what is he now?  A naib {deputy governor}, a man of wealth, of high repute at the Nizam’s court.  There is no reason why you should not follow so worthy an example; cut out an Indiaman or two, and Desmond Burke may, if he will, convey a shipload of precious things to the shores of Albion, and enjoy his leisured dignity on a landed estate of his own.  He shall drive a coach while his oaf of a brother perspires behind a plow.”

Desmond was silent.  Diggle watched him keenly, and after a slight pause continued: 

“This is no great thing that is asked of you.  You sail on one of Angria’s grabs; you are set upon the shore; you enter Bombay with a likely story of escape from the fortress of the Pirate; you are a hero, the boon fellow of the men, the pet of the ladies—­for there are ladies in Bombay, forma praestante puellae.  In a week you know everything, all the purposes that Angria’s spies have failed to discover.  One day you disappear; the ladies wail and tear their hair; a tiger has eaten you; in a week you will be forgotten.  But you are back in Angria’s fortress, no longer a slave, downtrodden and despised; but a free man, a rich man, a potentate to be.  Is it not worth thinking of, my young friend, especially when you remember the other side of the picture?  It is a dark side; an unpleasant side; even, let me confess, horrible:  I prefer to keep it to the wall.”