"’At these words the king rose up in wrath to smite the Vetâla, and held him in swift and dexterous combat for a brief space. And the Vetâla, having thus made proof of the might and heroism of the king, and being satisfied, spake and said: "O king, thou art mighty indeed; I am content with thy valour; now, then, ask me what thou wilt." And the king answered: "Seeing that thou art well-disposed towards me, grant me this grace, that when I shall call thee, thou wilt in that same instant stand at my side." And the Vetâla, having granted this grace to the king, departed unto his own place.’" The Babu waved his hands as a sign that the story was ended. He was damp with perspiration, and in his glance at Desmond there was a kind of furtive appeal for approval. "Thou speakest well, Babu," said the warder. "But what befell King Bhoya when the graven image had thus ended his saying?" "That, good jailer, is another story, and if you please to hear it another night I will do my poor best to satisfy you." "Well, the hour is late." The warder rose to his feet and resumed his official gruffness. "Come, rise; it is time I locked your fetters; and, in good sooth, mine is no golden key." He chuckled as he watched the prisoners file one by one into the shed. Following them, he quickly locked each in turn to his staple in the wall and went out, bolting and double locking the door behind him. "You did well, my friend," whispered Desmond in English to the Babu. "My heart flutters like the wings of a bulbul," answered the Babu; "but I am content, sahib." "But say, Surendra Nath," remarked one of the Maratha captives, "last time you told us that story you said nothing of the golden key." "Ah!" replied the Babu, "you are thinking of the story told by the second graven image in King Vikramâditya’s throne. I will tell you that to-morrow." CHAPTER THE TWELFTH *In which our hero is offered freedom at the price of honour; and Mr. Diggle finds that he has no monopoly of quotations.* Next morning, when Desmond left the shed with his fellow-prisoners, he took with him, secreted in a fold of his dhoti, a small piece of clay. It had been given him overnight by the Babu. An hour or two later, happening to be for a moment alone in the tool-shop, he took out the clay and examined it carefully. It was a moment for which he had waited and longed with feverish impatience. The clay was a thin strip, oval in shape, and slightly curved. In the middle of it was the impression, faint but clear, of a key. A footstep approaching, he concealed the clay again in his garment, and, when a workman entered, was busily plying a chisel upon a deal plank.