Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks, Bracebridge Hemyng [the two towers ebook TXT] 📗

At this moment, the shouts outside grew louder and fiercer.

An angry consultation, in which half a dozen at least were engaged, all talking at once, could be heard, and then Karam, the chief of the guard, came rushing back with a face full of dismay.

"Your highness——" he gasped.

"Well, Karam, what's the matter?" asked Mole.

"A grand officer, who calls himself Moley Pasha, the same name as your excellency, is outside with a body of troops, and insists upon admission."

Mole started from his seat, and almost immediately sank exhausted with fright and horror.

He saw now the peril in which he stood, and devoutly wished he were safe at home, and in the arms of Mrs. Mole.

"A—pasha—calling himself Moley!" he exclaimed. "What does he want?"

"He declares he has been appointed to this government by the firman of his imperial majesty the sultan, and that you—you—pardon, your highness—are an impostor."

Mole now knew the worst.

It was all up with him.

But desperation inspired him with an artificial courage; he resolved to die game, and keep it up to the last.

"Tell the so-called Moley Pasha," he exclaimed, "that he is the impostor. Here, guards, stand round me, and defend your rightful governor."

The soldiers wavered.

They began to fear that all was not quite right.

Karam, the captain, also hesitated in enforcing the commands of Mole.

At this moment the scale was turned by Abdullah, the interpreter, rushing into the hall, and thundering forth, to the utter amazement and consternation of Mole—

"Down with the impostor, my friends. We have all been deceived by this usurper, who has forged the sacred signature of our mighty sultan."

Shouts of "Down with the impostor!" now resounded on all sides, and a rush was made to drag Mole from his seat.

Poor Mole, he was entirely defenceless.

Jack and Harry did not return; probably they had been secured by the enemy.

Mole gave himself up for lost.

He was surrounded by an infuriated crowd, still shouting "Down with the impostor! Death to the infidel who dares to wear the colours of the blessed Prophet!"

It seems, indeed, that the luckless Mole would have fallen a sacrifice to Lynch law, but at this moment the real Moley Pasha, with his troops, entered the hall, and at once commanded the infuriated crowd to stop, and relinquish their victim.

"Now," said the real Moley Pasha, "bring before me the stranger who has so audaciously assumed my title and dignity."

Poor Mole, now a trembling "prisoner at the bar," was brought, bound and guarded by soldiers, before the magnate whom of late he had defied.

"Prisoner," said the pasha, sternly, "what do you dare to say for yourself in defence of the crime you have committed?"

Mr. Mole, in the deepest fright and humility, made shift to stammer in Turkish—

"I don't defend it at all; I—I was egged on to it by that young Jack Harkaway."

"What's Harkaway?" now inquired the pasha.

"The youth who came with me, and passed as my son, Yakoob, and his friend Harry Girdwood, or Haroun Pasha."

"Ah! two more impostors; bring them forward," said the pasha.

Search was made for Jack and Harry, but they were nowhere to be found.

In the confusion they had contrived to make good their escape.

"Well, we must make an example of the chief offender," said the pasha. "Prisoner, I find you have some difficulty in expressing yourself in our language, which alone should have stamped you as an impostor. I suppose you speak French?" he added, continuing his interrogation in that language. "I command you instantly to point out any other accomplices in this villainous fraud."

"The interpreter, Abdullah, your highness," said Mole, glad to be avenged upon that worthy.

Here Abdullah came forward, making a gesture of disgust, and turning up his eyes in pious horror.

"Inshallah! what lies do these dogs speak!" he exclaimed. "I swear to your highness, by the prophet, that I knew not, suspected not, till this moment that he was other than he seemed."

"You rascally old villain! you deserve bowstringing for this," cried Mole.

"Peace!" sternly cried the pasha. "Show me the forgery you dare to call the firman of his sublime majesty, the sultan."

Mole instantly produced the unlucky document.

The real Moley Pasha instantly compared it with his own.

"An impudent forgery!" he exclaimed, turning to the cadi of the town, who had now arrived, and was much amazed and dismayed at what had occurred.

"Pardon me, I entreat, your excellency," said the old cadi. "I trust you will let this accusation go no further. In any case, my associates in office were quite as much to blame."

"'Twas this Frankish magician who has befooled us with his spells," said several of the town officials.

And they pointed at Mole with fierce and vengeful gestures, which made him feel certain that his life would be sacrificed to their vengeance.

"I doubt whether it was witchcraft or mere folly," said the pasha, who was much more enlightened than most of his audience. "It seems to me that this giaour is very probably the dupe of others. But, in any case, he must not go unpunished. Prisoner, your crime is proved, and I sentence you to——"

He paused.

Mole fell on his knees.

"To a week's imprisonment in the first place, which will allow time for further inquiries to be made, and, if necessary, to communicate and receive our sublime Master's commands on the matter. Till then you will be kept in solitary confinement, on bread and water, and closely guarded."

"Mercy!" Mole found tongue to exclaim. "I trust—I implore that your highness will at least spare my wretched life, for I declare——"

"Away with him," interrupted the pasha.

So the unhappy Mole was taken off in chains to his dungeon, bread and water, and horrible anticipations of his ultimate fate.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

MOLE IN "THE DEEPEST DUNGEON"—HOPES OF RESCUE.

The unfortunate Isaac Mole was now reduced to a position unprecedented even in his varied career.

He was placed in the "deepest dungeon" of the old castle, which was used as the town gaol, in a cold stone cell all to himself, and a couple of fierce-looking bashi-bazouks to watch him.

Bread and water—both of the stalest—constituted poor Mole's only fare, and his lodging was literally "on the cold, cold ground."

The constant fear of a terrible doom haunted him.

It was the third night of his incarceration, and about the middle of the night Mole was kept awake by his own depressing thoughts, together with the gambols of the rats that infested the dungeon.

Suddenly the deadly stillness was broken by a sound outside, which much agitated him.

"Ha, what sound is that?" cried Mole; "yes, oh, joy, it is the sound of a flute."

Could he mistake that note?

Who could make such melancholy strains but the desolate orphan—the melodious Figgins?

Had Figgins, forgetting all past differences and animosities, come to soothe Mole's captivity, in this manner, or—horrible thought!—was it a strain of malice or revengeful triumph that emanated from the long-suffering and tortured instrument.

But the flute did not long continue playing, and Mole conjectured that it was only a signal to which he was expected to respond.

He had no mode whatever of doing so, excepting a melancholy whistle, which, however, served its purpose.

Through the bars of the prison, which were far too high up for him to reach, a small object suddenly came crashing, and very narrowly did it escape falling upon the prisoner's nose.

Reaching out his hand in the dark, Mr. Mole picked it up, and found it to be a stone wrapped in paper.

He knew at once that it must be a written message from his friends outside, and again he whistled as a signal that he had received it.

A few triumphant notes on the flute responded to this, and then all was silent again.

How impatient Mole was for daylight, that he might read the letter.

But it was many hours to that yet, and sleep he found impossible.

At length, a faint streak came through the bars of the gloomy dungeon.

Mole, with some difficulty, dragged himself under this light, straightened out the paper, and read thus—