Resistance was obviously futile.

Still holding his daughter's hand, the missionary let himself be led to the outer hall and down a corridor, where, presently, a six-inch door shut prisoners and guards even from sound of what transpired beyond.
Alwa, swaggering until his long spurs jingled like a bunch of keys each time his boot-heels struck the marble floor, strode straight as a soldier up to the raised throne dais--took no notice whatever of the sudden slamming of the door behind him--looked knife-keenly into Howrah's eyes--and saluted with a flourish.
"I come from bursting open Jaimihr's buzzard roost!" he intimated mildly.

"He held a man of mine.

I have the man." Merely to speak first was insolence; but that breach of etiquette was nothing to his manner and his voice.

It appeared that he was so utterly confident of his own prowess that he could afford to speak casually; he did not raise his voice or emphasize a word.