Heath, for the next "Book of Beauty."
"Wretch!" said she, "what wouldst thou?"
"You black-faced fiend," said I, "raise but your voice, and you are
dead!"
"And afterwards," said she, "do you suppose that YOU can escape? The
torments of hell are not so terrible as the tortures that Holkar will
invent for thee."
"Tortures, madam?" answered I, coolly. "Fiddlesticks! You will neither
betray me, nor will I be put to the torture: on the contrary, you will
give me your best jewels and facilitate my escape to the fort. Don't
grind your teeth and swear at me. Listen, madam : you know this
dress and these arms;--they are the arms of your husband, Bobbachy
Bahawder--MY PRISONER. He now lies in yonder fort, and if I do not
return before daylight, at SUNRISE HE DIES: and then, when they send his
corpse back to Holkar, what will you, HIS WIDOW, do?"
"Oh!" said she, shuddering, "spare me, spare me!"
"I'll tell you what you will do. You will have the pleasure of dying
along with him--of BEING ROASTED, madam: an agonizing death, from
which your father cannot save you, to which he will be the first man
to condemn and conduct you. Ha! I see we understand each other, and you
will give me over the cash-box and jewels." And so saying I threw myself
back with the calmest air imaginable, flinging the pistols over to her.
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