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 31822027245786 
 
 Social Sciences & Humanities Library 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 Please Note: This item is subject to recall. 
 
 Date Due 
 
 MAR 1 1 1998 
 
 Cl 39 (5/97) 
 
 UCSD Lib.
 
 In the 
 Permanent Way
 
 By the same Author. 6s. each 
 
 On the Face of the Waters 
 
 1 Many novelists and spinners of tales have 
 made use of the Indian Mutiny, but Mrs. 
 Steel leaves them all a long way behind. " On 
 the Face of the Waters" is the best novel of 
 the great Mutiny, and we are not likely to see 
 its rival in our time.' Saturday Review. 
 
 The Potter's Thumb 
 
 'A brilliant story a story that fascinates, 
 tingling with life, steeped in sympathy with 
 all that is best and saddest.' Globe. 
 
 From the Five Rivers 
 
 'Mrs. Steel has evidently been brought into 
 close contact with the domestic life of all 
 classes, in city and village, and has steeped 
 herself in their customs and superstitions. 
 Her book is of exceptional merit and fresh- 
 ness." Times. 
 
 London : William Hcinemann
 
 In the 
 Permanent Way 
 
 and Other Stories 
 
 By 
 
 Flora Annie Steel 
 
 London 
 William Heinemann
 
 Ail rights reserved
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SHUB'RAT i 
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 27 
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 43 
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 74 
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 89 
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD IO9 
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 1 29 
 
 THE KING'S WELL .150 
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE . 165 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR l8o 
 
 A BIT OF LAND 194 
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 2O6 
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 22O 
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 235 
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE . . 255 
 
 THE SWIMMERS 273 
 
 THE FAKEER'S DRUM 284 
 
 AT HER BECK AND CALL 288 
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 295
 
 SHUB'RAT 
 
 THE church gong hung from the level branch of a spread- 
 ing sirus tree, whence the slight breeze of dawn, rustling 
 the dry pods of a past summer and stirring the large soft 
 puff-blossoms of the present, seemed to gather up a faint 
 whisper and a fainter perfume to be upborne into space 
 further and further and further by the swelling sound- 
 waves of the gong as it vibrated to old Been Mahomed's 
 skilful stroke. 
 
 More like a funeral knell, this, calling the dead to for- 
 getfulness, than a cheerful summons of the living to give 
 thanks for life, for creation and preservation. You could 
 hear each mellow note quiver into silence, before loud and 
 full with a sort of hollow boom the great disc of bronze 
 shook once more to its own resounding noise ; seeming in 
 its agitation to feel the strangeness of the task more than 
 the striker; though, to say sooth, few things in earth or 
 heaven were more incongruous than this church chime 
 and the man who rang it. For Been Mahomed, as his 
 name implies, was of the faith of Islam ; fierce-featured, 
 hawk-eyed, with the nameless look of his race; a look 
 suiting the curved sword he wore, in virtue of his office 
 as watchman, better than the brass badge slung over his 
 
 A
 
 9 SHUB'RAT 
 
 shoulder proclaiming him to be a member of the Indian 
 Church Establishment that alien Church in an alien land. 
 
 And yet the old man's figure fitted close with the build- 
 ing he guarded ; for despite the new title of St. John's-in- 
 the-Wilderness, the church remained outwardly what it had 
 been built to be a Mahomedan tomb. Its white dome 
 and corner cupolas rose familiarly into the blue sky beyond 
 the sirus trees, where, even at this early hour, a hint of 
 coming heat was to be seen in a certain pallidness and 
 hardness. Within, beneath that central dome, encircled 
 now by pious Christian texts, lay buried a champion of 
 another God, whose name, interlaced into a thousand deli- 
 cate traceries, still formed the decoration of each architrave, 
 each screen ; lay buried, let us hope, beyond sight or sound 
 of what went on above his helplessness. 
 
 How this change had come about is of no moment to 
 the story. Such things have been, nay, are, in India, 
 seeming in truth more fantastic when set down in pen and 
 ink than they do when seen in the warm clasp of that 
 Indian sunlight which shines down indifferently on so many 
 a strange anomaly of caste, and creed, and custom. Most 
 likely when the wave of evangelical fervour reached the 
 East to prepare the way for the Great Sacrifice of purifica- 
 tion by blood and fire which came to native and alien alike 
 in the horrors and wonders of 'Fifty-seven,' some pious 
 bureaucrat had felt a certain militant satisfaction in hand- 
 ing over a heathen edifice to Christian uses. Such things 
 have their sentimental side ; and this tomb had been like 
 many another Crown property, and so had become ours 
 by right of conquest. No one else, at any rate, had laid 
 claim to it, except, in some vague, mysterious way, old 
 Deen Mahomed, and he only to its guardianship as being
 
 SHUB'RAT 3 
 
 1 the dust of the feet of the descendants of Huzrut-Ameer- 
 ulla-moomeereen-ulli-Afoortdza, the Holy' in other words, 
 an inheritor of the saints in light. 
 
 Now this sort of title is one not likely to find favour 
 in alien eyes. Despite this, Deen Mahomed remained 
 guardian of the Church of St. John's-in-the-Wilderness, 
 thanks to that ineradicable sense one may almost say 
 common sense of justice which dies hard in the English- 
 man of all creeds. The only difference to the old man 
 at least so the authorities assumed being that he wore a 
 sword, a badge, chimed the church gong, and received the 
 munificent sum of five rupees a month for performing 
 these trivial duties ; which latter fact naturally put the very 
 idea of discontent beyond the pale of practical politics. 
 Apparently Deen Mahomed was of this opinion also; at 
 least he never hinted at objection. 
 
 Even now, as he stood unmovable save for one slowly 
 swinging arm, there was neither dislike nor approval on 
 the fierce yet indifferent face looking out at the white glare 
 of the tomb beyond the sirus shade, at the worshippers 
 laden with Bibles and Prayer-books passing up the steps, 
 crossing the plinth, and so disappearing within, and at the 
 long line of vehicles from the Commissioner's barouche 
 to the clerk's palki seeking the shade to await their 
 owners' return when the service should be over. Not so 
 wearisome a task as might be imagined, since the big 
 bazaar was near for refreshment or recreation; so near, 
 in fact, that any solemn pause was apt to give prominence 
 to the twanging of unmentionable sutaras or bursts of 
 unmistakable laughter. For, as ill-luck would have it, not 
 only the bazaar, but the very worst quarter of it, lay just 
 behind the fringe of date palms which gave such local
 
 4 SHUB'RAT 
 
 colour to the sketches of the church which the Chaplain's 
 wife drew for their friends at home. And yet, in a way, 
 this close propinquity to the atrocious evils of heathendom 
 had its charm for the little colony of the elect who lived 
 beside the Chaplain. In the still evenings, when the scent 
 of the oranges which were blossoming madly in the watered 
 gardens round the houses filled the air, the inhabitants 
 would sit out among the fast-fading English flowers, and 
 shake their heads in sorrowful yet satisfied sympathy with 
 their own position as exiles in that invisible Sodom and 
 Gomorrah. Invisible, because St. John's-in-the-Wilderness 
 rose between them and it, shutting out everything save the 
 impartial sky, whence the sunshine poured down alike on 
 Christian and heathen, just and unjust. Thus the visible 
 church was to them as the invisible one ; a veil between 
 them and the people. 
 
 It was a square building recessed and buttressed to a 
 hexagon. The Chaplain, however, preferred to call it a 
 St. Andrew's cross, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps 
 again Deen Mahomed and his cult had really had as little 
 to say to its form as the Chaplain; such responsibility 
 being reserved to the primeval sraddha, or four-pointed 
 death-offering. Be that as it may, there was a coolness 
 between the new parson and his watchman, owing to the 
 former declaring it to be a scandal that the latter should 
 hold such orifice in a Christian place of worship, when he 
 was not even an inquirer ! Certainly he was not. He 
 neither inquired of others nor tolerated inquiry from 
 them. He slept on the plinth of nights, chimed the 
 gong by day, and kept the rest of his life to himself. 
 That was all. 
 
 Not one of the congregation filing into the church that
 
 SHUB'RAT 5 
 
 morning knew more of him than this. So he stood in- 
 differently waiting for the first note of the harmonium to 
 tell him his task was over ; listening for it to pulsate out 
 into the sunshine, and, blending with the last note of the 
 gong, go forth upon the endless waves of ether. Go forth 
 hand-in-hand, plaintiff and defendant- a quaint couple 
 seeking extinction, or perhaps the Great White Throne 
 against which the ripple of life beats in vain. 
 
 The note came this morning as on other mornings, and 
 Deen Mahomed turned, indifferent as ever, to his house. 
 It was a mud and thatch hovel clinging to one side of a 
 miniature tomb, half in ruins, which some follower of the 
 saint had built within the shadow of his master's grave. 
 It stood just opposite the flight of steps up which a late 
 worshipper or two was hurrying, glad, even at that early 
 hour, to escape from the glare of sunlight. Yet on the 
 warm dust before the hovel a child of four or five sat con- 
 tentedly making a garden, while the coachman of a smart 
 barouche and pair drawn up close by looked down with 
 interest on the process. 'Twas God Almighty, says Bacon, 
 who first planted a garden; but ever since the task has 
 had a strange charm for man, and even Deen Mahomed 
 paused with a smile for the little watered plots and pre- 
 tended paths. 
 
 ' Thou hast encroached on thy neighbour's land to-day, 
 Rahmut,' he said, 'and gone into the roadway. Lo ! the 
 Sirkar will make thee pay revenue, little robber.' 
 
 'Trust them for that,' put in the coachman quickly; 
 then he chuckled. 'But the boy grows; yea! he grows 
 to take his father s place' 
 
 The old man frowned, yet laid his hand gently on the 
 child's head, as he said evasively, ' Have a care, Rahmut,
 
 6 SHUB'RAT 
 
 whilst I am gone, and water thy rose, or 'twill die in this 
 heat.' 
 
 He pointed to a drooping white rosebud which the little 
 boy had stuck in his centre bed. 
 
 'Ay,' replied the coachman, "tis hot indeed for the 
 time of year.' 
 
 ' As hot a ShuUr&t as I remember. God send the night 
 be cool and bring peace.' 
 
 'God send it may,' echoed the coachman piously, his 
 evil-looking face showing the worse for his unction. ' God 
 send all get their deserts on this the great Night of Record.' 
 
 He made the remark without a quiver, oblivious, ap- 
 parently, of a long series of petty thefts against his master's 
 grain, and many another peccadillo of the past year. But 
 then, though every faithful Mahomedan believes that on 
 ShuVr&i God comes to earth with all the saints in glory, 
 there, in the presence of the Dead, to write his Record for 
 the coming year upon the foreheads of the Living, things 
 had a knack of going on after this judgment much as 
 they did before ; especially in regard to such trivial offences 
 as the theft of grain from a horse. 
 
 'God send they may,' re-echoed the old man, suddenly, 
 fiercely. The words seemed to cut like a knife ; yet once 
 more he laid his hand upon the child's head almost in 
 caress. 
 
 ' Have a care, child, for thyself and thy rose. Thou 
 didst not pick it, sure, from the sahib's garden?' he added 
 hastily. 
 
 Rahmut threw up a handful of dry dust and spread his 
 little skinny arms in gay denial. 
 
 ' Lo ! n&na ! what a thought ! I begged it of the padre's 
 baba. He comes ever to the assemblage with flowers, and
 
 the white mem, his mother, bade him give it to me, and 
 that too she brought it in her bag of books.' 
 
 He pointed with pride to some strips of torn white paper 
 stuck in the sand as walls to the garden. Then his tone 
 changed to tears. ' O nana I nana \ thou hast spoilt it ! 
 thou hast spoilt it ! ' For the old man in sudden fury 
 had swept the remains of the offending tract from their 
 foundations, crushed them to a ball, and flung it across the 
 sunshiny roadway to the plinth, where it skimmed along 
 the smooth surface to roll finally to the very door of the 
 church. 
 
 { No tears, child no tears, I say,' came in a fierce order. 
 1 If thou wouldst not have me beat thee, no tears. Thou 
 shalt not even play with such things, thou shalt not touch 
 them. I, the dust from the feet of the saints, say it.' 
 
 So, leaving the child whimpering, he turned to the hovel, 
 muttering to himself. Rujjub, the coachman, nodded to 
 the next on the rank. 
 
 'The elephant escaped through the door and his tail 
 stuck in the keyhole,' he said, with a sneer. ' Meean 
 fakeer-ji will not have his grandson touch the Ungeel 
 (Evangel), and chimes the church-gong himself. But, in 
 truth, he loves the old tomb God smite those who defile 
 it as he loves the boy. God smite those who sent the 
 boy's father over the Black Water to fight the infidel in 
 China. Lo ! even Jehad (holy war) is accursed with such 
 leaders.' 
 
 ' Bah ! Rujjub,' retorted his fellow cheerfully. ' 'Tis so 
 sometimes without fault. " He climbed the camel to get 
 out of the way, and still the dog bit him," say the wise. 
 The Meean is half-crazed ; all know that. And as for thee ! 
 Did thy master pay as fair as mine we should have less zeal
 
 8 SHUB'RAT 
 
 from some folk, should we not, brothers? A fist full of 
 rupees brings peace, since there is no clapping with one 
 palm ! ' 
 
 A chuckle ran round the squatting grooms at this home- 
 thrust at Rujjub the grumbler Rujjub the agitator. The 
 sweet high voices of English women singing a missionary 
 hymn came floating out through the open doors. A 
 hovering kite, far in the blue, swooped suddenly, startling 
 the green and gold parrots inlaid like a mosaic pattern on 
 the white dome to screaming flight for shelter towards 
 the sirus trees. Little Rahmut, forgetting his tears, built 
 fresh walls of sand to his garden, and watered the fading 
 rosebud anew. 
 
 Then a sort of murmurous silence, born of the measured 
 cadence of one voice from within and the lazy, listless 
 gossiping without, settled down over the glare and the 
 shade. Only from the hut came no sound at all. No 
 sound even from the little tomb where the old watchman 
 knelt, his hands on his knees in the attitude of prayer, his 
 keen eyes staring straight into the soft darkness for the 
 only entrance was so small that the crouching figure 
 blocked out the day. But darkness or light were alike to 
 Been Mahomed, lost as he was to the present in a dull 
 memory and hope. Perhaps when, years before, he had 
 first begun to hold his service in defiance of that other 
 worship, he may have put up some definite petition. Now 
 there was none. Only the cry so seldom heard by human 
 ears, yet whose echoes so often resound like thunder through 
 
 the world 
 
 How long, O Lord ! how long ? 
 
 So he knelt, paralysed by the very perplexity of his own 
 prayer, until a louder burst from the harmonium and a
 
 SHUB'RAT 9 
 
 sudden hubbub among the carriages warned him that the 
 service was over. He rose indifferently, and came out 
 into the sunlight. It lay now like a yellow glaze over the 
 white stucco of St. John's-in-the-Wilderness, over the gaily 
 dressed congregation hurrying to escape from it in their 
 cool homes, over Rujjub whipping his horses viciously, 
 obedient to a sharp order from the Englishman who had 
 just handed a delicate woman into the carriage, over 
 Rahmut's garden with its white rosebud. And then ! 
 
 The whole, thing was past in a moment. A plunge a 
 swerve ! a little naked imp making a dive before those 
 prancing feet with an eager, childish cry; then a shriek 
 from the pale-faced lady standing up in the barouche, a 
 small figure, crushed and bleeding, in an old man's arms, 
 and a shout seeming to fill the air. 
 
 ' Rahmut ! Ah, mercy of the most High ! Justice ! 
 Justice !' 
 
 'Don't look, my dear,' said an English voice; 'please 
 remember that you you had better drive home. It was 
 the child's own fault. Doctor, hadn't we better drive 
 home?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes. Drive home, dear lady ! ' said another 
 English voice in hurried approach to the scene. 'You 
 are not fit. Now then, good people, stand back, please. 
 Carmichael, make those niggers stand back. I must see 
 the boy.' 
 
 It was easy enough to ensure compliance so far as the 
 pale faces, made paler by shocked sympathy, went ; easier 
 still to enforce it from the darker ones accustomed to obey 
 orders given in that foreign accent. But how about the old 
 man standing like a stag at bay, clutching the child to his 
 breast, and backing towards his hut with a loud, fierce cry ?
 
 io SHUB'RAT 
 
 'Touch him not ! Touch him not ! Touch him not !' 
 
 1 We are only driving him crazy,' said the Doctor aside, 
 ' and I doubt if it is much good. I saw the wheel pass 
 right over the chest. Let him be ' 
 
 'But it seems so cruel, so unchristian,' protested the 
 Parson. 
 
 The Doctor smiled oddly. 
 
 ' That doesn't alter the fact. You 're no good here ; no 
 more am I. Here, you chuprassie \ Run like the devil to 
 the dispensary, and tell Faiz Khan he 's wanted. If he is 
 out, one of the Mahomedan dressers a Mahomedan, 
 mind you and he is to report to me. Come along, 
 Parson. The kindest thing we can do is to go away. 
 It 's humiliating, but true.' 
 
 Apparently it was so, for a sort of passive resignation 
 came to the straining arms as the dark faces crowded round 
 once more with plain, unhesitating, unvarnished comments. 
 
 'Lo! he is dead for sure. Well, it is the Lord's will, 
 and he hath found freedom. See you, he wanted his flower, 
 the foolish one.' 
 
 ' 'Twas the horses did it,' said another. ' They are evil- 
 begotten beasts. Rujjub hath said so often.' 
 
 * Ai ! burri b&t \ All things are ill-begotten to one ill- 
 begot, and Rujjub's beasts know he stints their stomachs- 
 full,' put in a third. ' When I drove them in Tytler sahib's 
 stable they were true born (i.e. gentle) as the sahib was 
 himself. Then he took pension and went home to Wildyet, 
 and I have a new master who only keeps a phitton 
 (phaeton). It is undignified ; but, there, 'tis fate, nought 
 else.' 
 
 But Deen Mahomed, sitting with the dead child in his 
 arms, was not thinking of Rujjub or his horses, of phittons
 
 SHUB'RAT II 
 
 or barouches, not even of chariots of fire in a way not 
 even of Rahmut himself but simply of a tract and a 
 child's tears those last tears which were to be a last 
 memory for ever and ever. Yet even this thought brought 
 no definite emotion, only a dull wonder why such things 
 should be. A wonder so vague, so dull that when Faiz 
 Been arrived to give the verdict of death, the old man, 
 yielding readily to the inevitable, echoed the truism that it 
 was God's will. 
 
 What else, indeed, could it be to the fierce old fanatic 
 with his creed of kismet? 
 
 That same evening he lingered awhile in the big bazaar 
 on his way homewards from the sandy stretch of desert 
 land beyond the city walls, where he had left a new ant-hill 
 of a grave among the cluster belonging to his people; 
 lingered not for pleasure but for business, since the events 
 of the day had made it necessary that he should spend yet 
 a few more annas from the five rupees he gained by wear- 
 ing a sword, a badge, and chiming the church-gong. For 
 it was ShuVr&t-, the night the one night of all the long 
 year when the souls of the dead are permitted to visit 
 the ancestral home. Therefore little Rahmut, so lately 
 numbered amongst the cloud of witnesses, must not be 
 neglected ; he must find his portion like the others 
 a Benjamin's portion of good things such as children 
 love. 
 
 It was already dark, but even there in the bazaar the 
 little lamps of the dead shone from rn^ny a house, giving 
 an unwonted radiance to the big brass platters of the 
 sweetstuff shop where the old man paused to haggle over 
 full weight and measure ; since even in feasting the dead, 
 the living must look after themselves. A strange sight this.
 
 i* SHUB'RAT 
 
 The noisy bazaar, more full of stir than usual, since many 
 a thrifty soul had put off marketing till the last. Overhead, 
 the myriad-hued stars which, in these foggy climes, come 
 back to memory as an integral part of the Indian night, 
 and, beneath them, the little twinkling lamps set out in 
 rows. Thousands of them so much was certain from the 
 pale suffused light showing like a dim aurora above the 
 piled shadow of the city. On every side the same soft 
 radiance, save towards St. John's-in-the-Wilderness rising 
 dark beyond the fringe of palm-trees. This Feast of All 
 Souls was not for it, and to the crass ignorance of those who 
 lived in the garden-circled houses behind it the twinkling 
 lights set for the dead were but a sign of some new wicked- 
 ness in Sodom and Gomorrah, or, at best, of some heathen 
 rite over which to shake the head regretfully. 
 
 So in front of the cavernous shop, visible by the glow, 
 the old watchman fumbled beneath his badge with 
 reluctant hand for a few pence, listening the while to 
 Rujjub's account of the morning's tragedy given in the 
 balcony above, where the latter was lounging away his 
 leisure among heavy perfumes and tinkling jewels. One of 
 the hearers looked down over the wooden railing, and 
 nodded cheerfully at the chief mourner. 
 
 * It is God's will, father ; no one was to blame.' 
 ' To blame, 7 echoed Rujjub, with a thick laugh, for he 
 was in the first loquacity of semi-intoxication and still full 
 of resentment. 'The sahibs say I was to blame. It is 
 their way. But they will learn better. It is our blame if 
 we do this and that. My brother's blame that he would 
 not fight over the seas and get killed like Rahmut's father. 
 'Tis our blame for everything except for our rupees and our 
 women the sahibs can stomach them.'
 
 SHUB'RAT 13 
 
 Some one laughed, a gay laugh chiming to the tinkle of 
 jewels. 
 
 ' Wah \ thou mayest laugh now, Nargeeza ! ' continued 
 the man's voice savagely ; ' thou knowest not what virtue 
 means ' 
 
 '"Ari, brother, thou hast a hole in thy tail, said the 
 sieve to the needle,"' quoted the other voice amid a louder 
 titter and tinkle. Rujjub swore under his breath. 
 
 ' So be it, sister ! but a day of reckoning will come, and 
 thou be damned for thy dalliance with the infidel. Yea, 
 it will come; it will surely come.' 
 
 The words echoed through Deen Mahomed's heart and 
 brain as, leaving the shrill squabble with its running 
 accompaniment of titters and tinkles and broad masculine 
 guffaws behind him, he made his way back to his empty 
 hovel. 
 
 ' Yea, it will come ; it will surely come ! ' What else 
 was possible when God, a justly offended God, was above 
 all ? We in the West have not a monopoly in the Tower of 
 Siloam; that belongs to every religion, to none more 
 rightfully than to the Faith of Islam, which leaves all things 
 in the hand of Providence. 
 
 The belief brought a certain fierce patience to the old 
 man as he finished his preparations for the ghostly guests 
 who, on that night alone, could partake of the hospitality 
 of the living. The lamps, mere wicks and oil in little shells 
 of baked clay, were ready luted to their places by mud, 
 outlining the interior of the tomb where Deen Mahomed 
 performed all the rites of his religion ; outlining it so 
 strangely, that when they were lit, the old man, kneeling 
 before the white cloth spread upon the floor, looked as if 
 prisoned in a cage of light. There was no darkness then,
 
 14 SHUB'RAT 
 
 only that soft radiance reflected from the newly white- 
 washed walls upon that fair white sheet on which, with 
 calm ceremony, he laid the little earthen platters of food 
 one by one, designating their owners by name. 
 
 ' This to my grandson, Rahmut, who has found freedom. 
 
 That was the last dedication, and the old voice trembled 
 a little, ever so little, as it went on into the formula of faith 
 in one God, speaking through the mouths of his Prophets. 
 Not one prophet to-night but many, for were they not all 
 on earth Moses and Elias, Jesus and Mahomed taking 
 part in the Great Assize where those dead ancestors would 
 plead for the living who had inherited their sins, their 
 failures ? 
 
 Before such a tribunal as that there must be justice 
 justice for all things just and unjust. 
 
 So, half-kneeling, half-sitting, the old Mahomedan 
 waited for the finger of God to write his fate for the coming 
 year upon his forehead waited, resting against the wall, 
 for the spirits of the dead to come silently, invisibly, to the 
 feast prepared for them. And Rahmut had a Benjamin's 
 portion to console him for those tears those last tears 1 
 
 II 
 
 THE church gong was chiming again, and again it was 
 ShuVr&t. Not for the first time since Been Mahomed had 
 put little Rahmut's platter of sweets among the Feast of 
 the Dead, for the years had passed since the child had 
 sat in the sunlight planting gardens. How many the old 
 man did not consider ; in point of fact it did not matter 
 to his patience. In the end God's club must fall on the 
 unjust ; so much was sure to the eye of faith. Something
 
 SHUB'RAT 15 
 
 more also, if the signs of the times spoke true. When the 
 bolt fell it would not be from the blue; the mutterings 
 of the storm were loud enough, surely, to be heard even 
 by those alien ears. And yet Deen Mahomed, fanatic 
 and church-chimer, standing on that hot summer evening 
 beneath the sirus blossoms smiting the voice from the 
 quavering disc of metal, knew no more than this that 
 the time was at hand. Whether it was always so, or 
 whether the great Revolt was always pre-arranged, can 
 scarcely at this distance of time be determined. Certain 
 it is that many, like old Deen Mahomed, were simply 
 waiting ; waiting for the sign of God to slay and spare not. 
 
 Clang 1 
 
 The mellow note went out into the darkening heat; 
 for the sun was almost at its setting. St. John's-in-the- 
 Wilderness showed all the whiter against the deepening 
 shadows of the sky. 
 
 Clang! 
 
 Out into the stillness, the silence, as it had gone all 
 these restless, waiting years. 
 
 Clang! 
 
 Yet again ! How long, O Lord, how long? 
 
 God and his Prophet ! what was that ? 
 
 A clamour, and above it familiar beyond mistake 
 one word, l Deen! DeenT ('The Faith ! The Faith!') 
 
 Deen ? Yes, Deen Mahomed ! A hot breath of wind 
 from the east rustled the dry pods and stirred the perfumed 
 puff-blossoms a scorching wind from the east whirled the 
 clamour and the cry into the old man's ears through his 
 brain through his heart. 
 
 ' Deen! Deen! Deen!'
 
 16 SHUB'RAT 
 
 The disc of metal, unstruck, hung quivering ; slower and 
 slower, fainter and fainter, till, like the breath of one who 
 dies in his sleep, the vibration ceased. But the note went 
 alone into eternity, seeking judgment; for the harmonium 
 was mute. 
 
 l Deenl Deen! Deen/' 
 
 The cruelest cry that men nave made for themselves ! 
 
 It had been long dark ere the old man returned ; to 
 what he scarcely knew. As he stumbled from sheer fatigue 
 on the steps, and sat down to rest a space, he remem- 
 bered nothing save that the call had come and that he 
 had obeyed it. He had smitten more than metal, and 
 had smitten remorselessly. A terrible figure this ; his old 
 hands trembling with their work; his fierce old eyes 
 ablaze; his garments stained and bloody. Beyond the 
 white pile of the tomb the red flare of burning roof-trees 
 told their tale, and every now and again an uproarious 
 outburst of horrid menace, and still more horrid laughter, 
 came to hint that the work was not all complete. Yet 
 overhead the stars shone peacefully as ever; and, above 
 the city, the pale radiance of the death-feasts showed 
 serene. 
 
 The remembrance of the Festival and its duties came to 
 the old man's mind in a great pulse of satisfied revenge. 
 The tomb was his again ; nay, not his, but the saints, of 
 whose feet he was the dust those saints who would visit 
 the world that night. 
 
 He sat for an instant staring over the way towards his 
 own hovel, then rose slowly, showing in every movement the 
 fatigue of unusual exertion. Well, he had done his part ; 
 he had slain, and spared not at all. The others might
 
 SHUB'RAT 17 
 
 linger for the sake of greed ; as for him, his work was 
 done. 
 
 With a fierce sigh of relief he turned and limped 
 towards the church. It was darkness itself within the 
 deep doorway ; but the lamps were there, and he had flint 
 and steel. So one by one the lights shone out, revealing 
 the sacrilegious accessories of that past worship. And yet 
 it was not light enough for Shub'rat, not even when he had 
 lit the candles on the altar. Still, that was soon remedied. 
 A journey or two backwards and forwards to his own 
 hovel, and a ring of flickering oil cressets encircled the 
 table where it was his turn, at last, to spread the feast of 
 the dead. So large a feast that there was not room enough 
 for all, and he had to set a square of lights round a white 
 cloth laid upon the floor. 
 
 ' This to my grandson Rahmut, on whom be peace for 
 ever and ever.' 
 
 That, once more, was the last offering; and as the old 
 man's voice merged into the sonorous Arabic formula of 
 faith it trembled not at all, but echoed up into the dome 
 in savage, almost insane triumph and satisfaction. 
 
 This was ShuVr&t indeed a Night of Record. And 
 there was room and to spare beneath those architraves, 
 which displayed the Great Name again and again in every 
 scrap of tracery, for all the saints in heaven to stand and 
 judge between him and his forefathers for the sin that 
 had been done, the blood that had been spilt those fore- 
 fathers who had ridden through the land with that cry of 
 'Been! DecnT on their lips, and had conquered. As 
 they, the descendants, would conquer now ! Yea ! let 
 them judge; even Huzrut Isa 1 himself and the blessed 
 1 Jesus. 
 B
 
 i8 SHUB'RAT 
 
 Miriam his mother ; for there were times when even 
 motherhood must be forgotten. His trembling old hands, 
 strained under the task which will not bear description, 
 rested now on his bent knees ; his head was thrown back- 
 ward against the lectern on which the Bible lay open at 
 the lesson for the day ; his face, stern even in its satisfac- 
 tion, gazed at the twinkling death-lights, among which 
 little Rahmut's platter of sweets showed conspicuous. 
 Yea! let them come and judge; let them write his fate 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 Fatigue, content, the very religious exaltation raising 
 him above the actual reality of what was, and had been, 
 all conspired to bring about a sort of trance, a paralysis, 
 not of action deferred, as in the past, but of deeds accom- 
 plished. And so, after a time, with his head still against 
 the lectern, he slept the sleep of exhaustion. Yet, even 
 in his dreams the old familiar war-cry fell more than once, 
 like a sigh, from his lips, 
 
 'Deen! DeenT 
 
 A horrible scene, look at it how you will ; but, even in 
 its horror, not altogether base. 
 
 From without came a faint reflection of the blood-red 
 glare of fire in the sky, a faint echo of the drunken shouts 
 and beast-like cries of those who had taken advantage of 
 the times to return to their old evil-doings. Within, there 
 was nothing save the pale radiance of the twinkling lamps 
 set round the Death-Feast, the old man asleep against the 
 lectern, and silence. 
 
 Until, with a whispering, kissing sound, a child's bare 
 feet fell upon the bare stones a tiny child, still doubtful 
 of its balance, with golden hair shining in the light. 
 A scarlet flush of sleep showed on its cheeks, a stain of
 
 SHUB'RAT 19 
 
 deeper scarlet showed on the little white night-gown it 
 wore. Perhaps it had slept through the horrors of the 
 night, perhaps slept on, even when snatched up by mother 
 or nurse in the last wild flight for safety towards a sanc- 
 tuary. Who knows ? Who will ever know half the story 
 of the great Mutiny ? But there it was, sleep still lingering 
 in the wide blue eyes attracted by the flickering lights. 
 On and on, unsteadily, it came, past the old man dream- 
 ing of Jehad, past the lights themselves happily unhurt 
 to stretch greedy little hands on Rahmut's sweeties. So, 
 with a crow of delight, playing, sucking, playing, in high 
 havoc upon the fair white cloth. 
 
 
 
 Was it the passing of the spirits coming to judgment 
 which set the candle flames on the altar a-swaying towards 
 the cressets below them, or was it only the rising breeze 
 of midnight? Was it the Finger of Fate, or only the 
 fluttering marker hanging from the Bible above which 
 touched the old man's forehead? 
 
 Who knows? Who dares to hazard 'Yea' or 'Nay' 
 before such a scene as this ? Surely, with that blood-red 
 flare in the sky, those blood-red stains on earth, the passion 
 and the pity, the strain and stress of it all need a more 
 impartial judgment than the living can give. So let the 
 child and the old man remain among the lights flickering 
 and flaring before the unseen wind heralding a new day, 
 or the unseen Wisdom beginning a new Future. 
 
 
 
 Been Mahomed woke suddenly, the beads of perspira- 
 tion on his brow, and looked round him fearfully as men 
 do when roused, by God knows what, from a strange dream. 
 Then, to his bewilderment, came a child's laugh.
 
 20 SHUB'RAT 
 
 Saints in heaven and earth ! Was that Rahmut ? Had 
 he come back for his own in that guise? Did the padre- 
 sahibs speak true when they said the angels had golden 
 hair and pale faces ? He crouched forward on his hands 
 like a wild beast about to spring, his eyes fixed in a stupid 
 stare. There, within the ring of holy lights, on the fair 
 white cloth, was a child with outstretched hands full of 
 Rahmut's sweets and a little gurgle of delight in the cry 
 which echoed up into the dome. 
 
 ' Nanna, dekho \ (see) dekho, nanna.' 
 
 It was calling to its nurse, not to the old man; yet, 
 though he had begun to grasp the truth, his heart thrilled 
 strangely to the once familiar sound. 
 
 Ndnal 1 And it had chosen Rahmut's portion, had 
 claimed the child's place the child's own place ! 
 
 What was that ? A step behind him a half-drunken laugh 
 the dull red flash of a sabre which had already done its 
 work Rujjub, with a savage yell of satisfaction, steer- 
 ing straight as his legs would carry him to a new victim. 
 But he had reckoned without that unseen figure crouch- 
 ing in the shadow by the lectern ; reckoned without the 
 confused clashing and clamour of emotion vibrating in 
 the old man's bosom beneath the stroke of a strange 
 chance; reckoned, it may be, without the Fate written 
 upon the high narrow forehead which held its beliefs fast 
 prisoners. 
 
 There was no time for aught save impulse. The devilish 
 face, full of the lust of blood, had passed already. Then 
 came a cry, echoing up into the dome 
 
 'Deenl Deenl Allah-i-kukk ! ' 
 
 The old watchman stood, still with that stupid stare, 
 1 Grandfather.
 
 SHUB'RAT 21 
 
 gazing down at the huddled figure on its face which lay 
 before him, so close that the warm blood gurgling from it 
 horridly already touched his bare feet. 
 
 What had he done? Why had he done it? To save 
 the child who had claimed the child's place ? To be true ? 
 Well, it was done ! and those were voices outside 
 men coming to pillage the church, no doubt. There was 
 silver in the chest, he knew that, of course, had been 
 Rujjub's errand, and his comrades would not be far 
 behind they would find the dying man, and then? 
 Yea ! the die was cast, and, after all, it had been Rahmut's 
 platter! With these thoughts clashing and echoing through 
 heart and soul Been Mahomed sprang forward, seized the 
 child, stifling its cries with his hand, and disappeared into 
 the darkness. None too soon, for the yell of rage greeting 
 the discovery of the murdered comrade reached him ere 
 he had gained the shelter of the trees. Whither now? 
 Not to his house, for they would search there; search 
 everywhere for those survivors whose work remained as 
 witness to the existence of some foe. Alone he could 
 have faced the pillagers, secure in his past ; but with the 
 child the child struggling so madly ? And the last time 
 he had held one in his arms it had lain so still. O 
 Rahmut ! Rahmut ! mercy of the Most High ! Rahmut ! 
 Rahmut ! 
 
 The words fell from his lips in a hoarse whisper as he 
 ran, clinging to the darkest places, conscious of nothing 
 save the one fierce desire to get away to some spot where 
 the child's cries would not be heard where he would have 
 time to think some spot where the work had been done 
 already where nothing remained for lustful hands ! 
 
 The thought made him double back into the cool
 
 22 SHUB'RAT 
 
 watered gardens about the little group of houses beyond 
 the church. The flames were almost out now, and in one 
 roof, only a few sparks lingered on the remaining rafters. 
 Here would be peace; besides, even if the cries were 
 heard, they might be set down to some wounded thing 
 dreeing its deadly debt of suffering. A minute afterwards 
 he stood in a room, unroofed and reeking yet with the 
 smell of fire, but scarcely disturbed otherwise in its peaceful, 
 orderly arrangements a room with pictures pasted to the 
 walls and faintly visible by the glare, with toys upon the 
 floor, and a swinging cot whence a child had been snatched. 
 This child, perhaps who knows? Anyhow it cuddled 
 down from Been Mahomed's arms into the pillows as if 
 they were familiar. 
 
 'Nanna! Nanna!' it sobbed pitifully. 'Ifi/'ao, hil'do, 
 neendhi argia' ('Swing, swing, sleep has come'). 
 
 ' So fao mera butchcha ' (' Sleep, my child '), replied the 
 old man quietly, as his bloodstained hand began its task. 
 The wonder of such task had passed utterly, and had any 
 come to interrupt it he would have given his life calmly for 
 its fulfilment. Why, he did not know. It was Fate. So 
 the old voice, gasping still for breath, settled into a time- 
 honoured lullaby, which has soothed the cradle of most 
 bairns in India, no matter of what race or colour. 
 
 ' O crow ! Go crow 1 
 
 Ripe plums are so many. 
 Baby wants to sleep, you know. 
 They 're two pounds for a penny.' 
 
 So over and over in a low croon, mechanically he chanted, 
 till the child, losing its fear in the familiar darkness, fell 
 asleep. And then ? In a sort of dull way the question 
 had been in Deen Mahomed's mind from the beginning
 
 SHUB'RAT 23 
 
 without an answer, for he had gone so far along the road, 
 simply by following close on the finger of Fate ; and now 
 there was no possibility of turning back. For woe or weal 
 he had taken the child's part, he had accepted the respon- 
 sibility for its life, even to the length of death in others. 
 Not that he cared much for the consequences of the 
 swinging blow he had dealt to Rujjub he was no true 
 man. 
 
 What then? There was no chance of concealing the 
 child. It slept now, but ere long it would waken again, and 
 cry for ' Nanna, Nanna.' That must be prevented for a 
 time at any rate. The chubby hands still clasped one of 
 Rahmut's sweeties, and the old man stooped to break off 
 a corner, crumble it up with something he took from an 
 inner pocket, and then place it gently within the child's 
 moist, parted lips, which closed upon it instinctively. He 
 gave a sigh of relief. That was better ; that would settle 
 the cries for some hours, and before then he must have 
 made over the child to other hands. Yes, that was it. 
 He must somehow run the gauntlet of his comrades, and 
 reach the entrenched position which the infidels curse 
 them ! had defended against odds such as no man had 
 dreamed of before. It was seven miles to the north, that 
 cantonment, which would have been destroyed but for 
 those renegades from the Faith who had stood by their 
 masters, and that handful of British troops which had 
 refused to accept defeat. Seven miles of jungle and open 
 country alive with armed and reckless sepoys and sowars, 
 to whom a man in mufti was fair game, no matter what 
 the colour of his race, lay between him and that goal, and 
 Been Mahomed's grim face grew grimmer as he raised the 
 sleeping child, pillows and all, wrapped them in a quilt,
 
 24 SHUB'RAT 
 
 and slung the bundle on his back slung it carefully, so as 
 to give air to the child and freedom to his arms. He 
 might need it if they tried to stop him. He gave a 
 questioning glance at the sky as he came out into the 
 garden where the scent of the orange-blossoms drifted with 
 the lingering spirals of smoke. Not more than an hour or 
 two remained before the dawn would be upon them. He 
 must risk detection, then, by the short cut through the 
 bazaar ; better that than the certainty of discovery later on 
 in the daylight by those ready for renewed assault upon 
 the entrenchment. 
 
 ' WhoKumdar' challenged the sentry ceremoniously set, 
 as in peaceful times, at the city gate. 
 
 ' Allah akbar wa Mahomed rusool' replied the old man, 
 without a quiver. That was true ; he was for God and his 
 Prophet when all was said and done. But this was little 
 Rahmut's guest this. He passed his hand over his fore- 
 head in a dazed sort of way. 
 
 ' Art, look at his loot? hiccoughed one of a group in the 
 street; 'before God, he hath more than his share in the 
 bundle. Stop, friend, and pay toll.' 
 
 'What my sword hath won my sword keeps,' retorted 
 Been Mahomed fiercely. 'Better for thee in Paradise, 
 Allah Buksh, if thou hadst smitten more and drunk less.' 
 
 ' Let be ; let be ! ' interrupted another. ' Tis Been 
 Mahomed, the crazy watchman. I '11 go bail, he hath no 
 more than he deserves for this day's work. And he is a 
 devil with that sword of his when he is angry. Lo ! I saw 
 him at the corner, mind you, where the sahibs ' 
 
 But Been Mahomed had passed from earshot. Passed 
 on and on, through dark streets and light ones, challenged 
 jestingly, or in earnest; and through it all a growing
 
 SHUB'RAT 25 
 
 doggedness, a growing determination came to him to do 
 this thing, yet still remain, as ever, a guardian of the Faith. 
 This for Rahmut's sake, the other for the sake of the 
 Tomb, because he was the dust of the footsteps of the 
 saints in light. 
 
 Out in the open now, with the paling light of dawn 
 behind him and a drunken Hindu trooper riding at him 
 with a cry of 'Ram! Ram!' So they dared to give an 
 idolatrous cry, those Hindu dogs whose aid had been 
 sought to throw off the yoke who would soon find it on 
 their own shoulders. A step back, a mighty slash as the 
 horse sped by, maddened by bit and spur, a stumble, a 
 crash, and an old man, with a strange bundle at his back, 
 was hacking insanely at his prostrate foe. No more, 'Ram, 
 Ram ' for him ; that last cry had served as the death-fare- 
 well of his race and creed. 
 
 On again, with a fiercer fire in the eyes, through the great 
 tufts of tiger-grass isolating each poor square of God's earth 
 from the next, and making it impossible to see one's way. 
 On and on swiftly, forcing a path through the swaying 
 stems, whose silvery tasselled spikes above began to glitter 
 in the level beams of the rising sun. 
 
 Then suddenly, without a word of warning, came an 
 open sandy space, a brief command. 
 
 ' Halt ! ' 
 
 So soon ! It was nearer by a mile than he had expected, 
 and there was no chance of flight ; not unless you made 
 that burden on your back a target for pursuing bullets. A 
 fair mark, in truth, for the half-dozen or more of rifles 
 ready in the hands of the cursed infidels. 
 
 'Who goes there?' came the challenge in the cursed 
 foreign tongue. He gave one sharp glance towards the
 
 26 SHUB'RAT 
 
 picket, and bitter hatred flared up within him; for there 
 was not even a sahib there who might, perchance, under- 
 stand. Yet there was no doubt, no doubt at all, even to 
 his confused turmoil of feeling, as to 'who came there.' 
 A foe ! a foe to the death when this was over 1 So with 
 a shout came his creed 
 
 ' Allah akbar wa Mahomed rusool? 
 
 Then in a sort of gurgle, as he fell forward on his face, 
 it finished in ' Deen ! Deen ! Deen 1 ' 
 
 ' Nicked 'im, by gum ! Nicked the ole beast neat as a 
 ninepin,' said one of the picket. 
 
 'Wonder wot he come on for like that?' said another. 
 
 ' B y ole Ghazi, that 's wot he was,' put in a third. 
 
 They gets the drink aboard, an' don't care for nothing but 
 religion rummy start, ain't it ? Hello ! wot 's that ? a 
 babby, by the Lord ! ' 
 
 For the shock of Deen Mahomed's fall had awakened 
 the child. 
 
 As they drew it from the blanket, the sun tipped over 
 the tiger-grass, and fell on its golden curls. 
 
 ShuVrat was over. 
 
 'I wonder wot 'e were a-goin' to do with it?' remarked 
 the inquirer, turning the dead body over with his foot, and 
 looking thoughtfully at the face, fierce even in death. But 
 no one hazarded a theory, and the Finger of Fate had left 
 no mark on the high, narrow forehead. But the Night of 
 Record was over for it also.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 I HEARD this story in a rail-trolly on the Pind-Dadur 
 line, so I always think of it with a running accompaniment; 
 a rhythmic whir of wheels in which, despite its steadiness, 
 you feel the propelling impulse of the unseen coolies 
 behind, then the swift skimming as they set their feet on 
 the trolly for the brief rest which merges at the first hint of 
 lessened speed into the old racing measure. Whir and 
 slide, racing and resting ! while the wheels spin like 
 bobbins and the brick rubble in the permanent way slips 
 under your feet giddily, until you could almost fancy your- 
 self sitting on a stationary engine, engaged in winding up 
 an endless red ribbon. A ribbon edged, as if with tinsel, 
 by steel rails stretching away in ever narrowing lines to the 
 level horizon. Stretching straight as a die across a sandy 
 desert, rippled and waved by wrinkled sand-hills into the 
 semblance of a sandy sea. 
 
 And that, from its size, must be a seventh wave. I was 
 just thinking this when the buzz of the brake jarred me 
 through to the marrow of my bones. 
 
 ' What 's up ? A train ? ' I asked of my companion who 
 was giving me a lift across his section of the desert. 
 
 ' No ! ' he replied laconically. ' Now, then ! hurry up, 
 men.' 
 
 Nothing in the wide world comes to pieces in the hand 
 like a trolly. It was dismembered and off the line in a 
 
 27
 
 28 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 moment; only however, much to my surprise, to be re- 
 placed upon the rails some half a dozen yards further 
 along them. I was opening my lips for one question when 
 something I saw at my feet among the brick rubble made 
 me change it for another. 
 
 ' Hullo ! what the dickens is that?' 
 
 To the carnal eye it was two small squares of smooth 
 stucco, the one with an oval black stone set in it perpen- 
 dicularly, the other with a round purplish one curiously 
 ringed with darker circles set in it horizontally. On the 
 stucco of one were a few dried tulsi 1 leaves and grains of 
 rice ; on the other suspicious-looking splashes of dark red. 
 
 ' What 's what ? ' echoed my friend, climbing up to his 
 seat again. 
 
 'Why, man, that thing! that thing in the permanent 
 way ! ' I replied, nettled at his manner. 
 
 He gave an odd little laugh, just audible above the first 
 whir of the wheels as we started again. 
 
 ' That 's about it. In the permanent way considerably.' 
 He paused, and I thought he was going to relapse into the 
 silence for which he was famous ; but he suddenly seemed 
 to change his mind. 
 
 'Look here,' he said, 'it's a fifteen-mile run to the first 
 curve, and no trains due, so if you like I '11 tell you why we 
 left the track.' 
 
 And he did. 
 
 When they were aligning this section I was put on to it 
 preliminary survey work under an R.E. man who wore 
 boiled shirts in the wilderness, and was great on ' Depart- 
 mental Discipline.' He is in Simla now, of course. Well, 
 1 Marjoram.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 29 
 
 we were driving a straight line through the whole solar 
 system and planting it out with little red flags, when one 
 afternoon, just behind that big wave of a sand-hill, we came 
 upon something in the way. It was a man. For further 
 description I should say it was a thin man. There is 
 nothing more to be said. He may have been old, he may 
 have been young, he may have been tall, he may have 
 been short, he may have been halt and maimed, he may 
 have been blind, deaf, or dumb, or any or all of these. 
 The only thing I know for certain is that he was thin. 
 The kalassies 1 said he was some kind of a Hindu saint, 
 and they fell at his feet promptly. I shall never forget the 
 R.E.'s face as he stood trying to classify the creature 
 according to Wilson's Hindu Sects, or his indignation at 
 the kalassief ignorant worship of a man who, for all they 
 knew, might be a follower of Shiva, while they were bound 
 to Vishnu, or vice versd,. He was very learned over the 
 Vaishnavas and the Saivas ; and all the time that bronze 
 image with its hands on its knees squatted in the sand 
 staring into space perfectly unmoved. Perhaps the man 
 saw us, perhaps he didn't. I don't know; as I said before, 
 he was thin. 
 
 So after a time we stuck a little red flag in the ground 
 close to the small of his back, and went on our way rejoic- 
 ing until we came to our camp, a mile further on. It 
 doesn't look like it, but there is a brackish well and a sort 
 of a village away there to the right, and of course we 
 always took advantage of water when we could. 
 
 It must have been a week later, just as we came to the 
 edge of the sand-hills, and could see a landmark or t\vo, 
 that I noticed the R.E. come up from his prismatic com- 
 1 Tent-pitchers men employed in measuring land.
 
 30 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 pass looking rather pale. Then he fussed over to me at 
 the plane table. 
 
 ' We 're out,' he said, ' there is a want of Departmental 
 Discipline in this party, and we are out.' I forget how 
 many fractions he said, but some infinitesimal curve would 
 have been required to bring us plumb on the next station, 
 and as that would have ruined the R.E.'s professional 
 reputation, we harked back to rectify the error. We found 
 the bronze image still sitting on the sand with its hands on 
 its knees ; but apparently it had shifted its position some 
 three feet or so to the right, for the flag was fully that 
 distance to the left of it. That night the R.E. came to my 
 tent with his hands full of maps and his mind of suspicions. 
 
 'It seems incredible,' he said, 'but I am almost con- 
 vinced that byragi or jogt, or gosain or sunyasi, whichever 
 he may be, has had the unparalleled effrontery to move my 
 flag. I can't be sure, but if I were, I would have him 
 arrested on the spot.' 
 
 I suggested he was that already; but it is sometimes 
 difficult to make an R.E. see a Cooper's Hill joke, especi- 
 ally when he is your superior officer. So we did that bit 
 over again. As it happened, my chief was laid up with 
 sun fever when we came to the bronze image, and I had 
 charge of the party. I don't know why, exactly, but it 
 seemed to me rough on the thin man to stick a red flag at 
 the small of his back, as a threat that we meant to annex 
 the only atom of things earthly to which he still clung; 
 time enough for that when the line was actually under 
 construction. So I told the kalassies to let him do duty as 
 a survey mark ; for, from what I had heard, I knew that 
 once a man of that sort fixes on a place in which to gain 
 immortality by penance, he sticks to it till the mortality, at
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 31 
 
 any rate, comes to an end. And this one, I found out 
 from the villagers, had been there for ten years. Of course 
 they said he never ate, nor drank, nor moved, but that, 
 equally of course, was absurd. 
 
 A year after this I came along again in charge of a con- 
 struction party, with an overseer called Craddock, a big 
 yellow-headed Saxon who couldn't keep off the drink, and 
 who had in consequence been going down steadily in one 
 department or another for years. As good a fellow as ever 
 stepped when he was sober. Well, we came right on the 
 thin one again, plump in the very middle of the permanent 
 way. We dug round him and levelled up to him for some 
 time, and then one day Craddock gave a nod at me and 
 walked over to where that image squatted staring into 
 space. I can see the two now, Craddock in his navvy's 
 dress, his blue eyes keen yet kind in the red face shaded 
 by the dirty pith hat, and the thin man without a rag of 
 any sort to hide his bronze anatomy. 
 
 'Look here, sonny,' said Craddock, stooping over the 
 other, ' you 're in the way in the permanent way.' 
 
 Then he just lifted him right up, gently, as if he had 
 been a child, and set him down about four feet to the left. 
 It was to be a metre gauge, so that was enough for safety. 
 There he sat after we had propped him up again with his 
 byraga or cleft stick under the left arm, as if he were quite 
 satisfied with the change. But next day he was in the old 
 place. It was no use arguing with him. The only thing 
 to be done was to move him out of the way when we 
 wanted it. Of course when the earthwork was finished 
 there was the plate-laying and ballasting and what not to 
 be done, so it came to be part of the big Saxon's regular 
 business to say in his Oxfordshire drawl
 
 32 . IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 1 Sonny, yo 're in the waiy in the permanent waiy.' 
 
 Craddock, it must be mentioned, was in a peculiarly 
 sober, virtuous mood, owing, no doubt, to the desolation 
 of the desert ; in which, by the way, I found him quite a 
 godsend as a companion, for when he was on the talk the 
 quaintness of his ideas was infinitely amusing, and his know- 
 ledge of the natives, picked up as a loafer in many a bazaar 
 and serai, was surprisingly wide, if appallingly inaccurate. 
 
 'There is something, savin' yo're presence, sir, blamed 
 wrong in the whole blamed business,' he said to me, with a 
 mild remonstrance in his blue eyes, one evening after he 
 had removed the obstruction to progress. 'That pore 
 fellar, sir, 'e's a meditatin' on the word Horn Hommi- 
 puddenhome 1 it is, sir, I've bin told an' doin' 'is little 
 level to make the spiritooal man subdoo 'is fleshly hin- 
 stinckts. And I, Nathaniel James Craddock, so called in 
 Holy Baptism, I do assure you, a-eatin' and a-drinkin' 
 'earty, catches 'im right up like a babby, and sets 'im on 
 one side, as if I was born to it. And so I will an' willin', 
 too so as to keep 'im from 'arm's way; for 'eathin or 
 Christian, sir, 'e's an eggsample to the spiritooal part of 
 me which, savin' your presence, sir, is most ways drink.' 
 
 Poor Craddock ! He went on the spree hopelessly the 
 day after we returned to civilisation, and it was with the 
 greatest difficulty that I succeeded in getting him a trial as 
 driver to the material train which commenced running up 
 and down the section. The first time I went with it on 
 business I had an inspection carriage tacked on behind the 
 truck-loads of coolies and ballast, so that I could not make 
 out why on earth we let loose a danger whistle and slowed 
 down to full stop in the very middle of the desert until I 
 1 Om mi pudmi houm. The Buddhist invocation.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 33 
 
 jumped down and ran forward. Even then I was only in 
 time to see Craddock coming back to his engine with a 
 redder face than ever. 
 
 ' It 's only old Meditations, sir,' he said apologetically, as 
 I climbed in beside him. 'It don't take a minute; no 
 longer nor a cow, and them 's in the reg'lations. You see, 
 sir, I wouldn't 'ave 'arm come to the pore soul afore 'is 
 spiritooal nater 'ad the straight tip hoam. Neither would 
 none of us, sir, coolie nor driver, sir, on the section. We 
 all likes old Hommipuddenhome \ 'e sticks to it so stiddy, 
 that 's where it is.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you always have to get out 
 and lift him off the line ? ' I asked, wondering rather at the 
 patience required for the task. 
 
 ' That 's 'so, sir,' he replied slowly, in the same apologetic 
 tones. ' It don't take no time you see, sir, that 's where it 
 is. P'r'aps you may 'ave thought, like as I did first time, 
 that 'e'd save 'is bacon when the engine come along. 
 Lordy ! the cold sweat broke out on me that time. I 
 brought 'er up, sir, with the buffers at the back of 'is 'ed 
 like them things the photographers jiminy you straight 
 with. But 'e ain't that sort, ain't Meditations.' Here 
 Craddock asked leave to light his pipe, and in the interval 
 I looked ahead along the narrowing red ribbon with its 
 tinsel edge, thinking how odd it must have been to see it 
 barred by that bronze image. 
 
 ' No ! that ain't his sort,' continued Craddock medita- 
 tively, 'though wot 'is sort may be, sir, is not my part to 
 say. I 've arst, and arst, and arst them pundits, but there 
 ain't one of them can really tell, sir, 'cos he ain't got any 
 marks about him. You see, sir, it 's by their marks, like 
 cattle, as you tell 'em. Some says he worships bloody 
 
 C
 
 34 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 Shivers 1 'im 'oos wife you know, sir, they calls Martha 
 Davy 2 a Christian sort o' name, ain't it, sir, for a 'eathin 
 idol? and some says 'e worships Wishnyou Lucksmi* an' 
 that lot, an' Holy 4 too, though, savin' your presence, sir, it 
 ain't much holiness I see at them times, but mostly drink. 
 It makes me feel quite 'omesick, I do assure you, sir, more 
 as if they was humans like me, likewise.' 
 
 ' And which belief do you incline to ? ' I asked, for the 
 sake of prolonging the conversation. 
 
 He drew his rough hand over his corn-coloured beard, 
 and quite a grave look came to the blue eyes. ' I inclines 
 to Shiver] he said decisively, ' and I '11 tell you why, sir. 
 Shiver's bloody; but 'e's dead on death. They calls 'im 
 the Destroyer. 'E don't care a damn for the body ; 'e 's 
 all for the spiritooal nater, like old Meditations there. 
 Now Wishnyou Lucksmi an' that lot is the Preservers. 
 They eats an' drinks 'earty, like me. So it stands to 
 reason, sir, don't it? that 'e's a Shiver, and I'm a Wishnyou 
 Lucksmi' He stood up under pretence of giving a wipe 
 round a valve with the oily rag he held, and looked out to 
 the horizon where the sun was setting, like a huge red 
 signal right on the narrowing line. ' So,' he went on after 
 a pause, 'that's why I wouldn't 'ave 'arm come to old 
 Meditations. 'E 's a Shiver^ I 'm a Wishnyou Lucksmi, 
 That 's what / am.' 
 
 His meaning was quite clear, and I am not ashamed to 
 say that it touched me. 
 
 ' Look here,' I said, ' take care you don't run over that 
 old chap some day when you are drunk, that 's all.' 
 
 He bent over another valve, burnishing it. ' I hope to 
 
 1 Shiva. 2 Mata devi. 
 
 8 Vishnu Lukshmi. 4 Holi, the Indian Saturnalia.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 35 
 
 God I don't,' he said in a low voice. ' That 'd about finish 
 me altogether, I expect.' 
 
 We returned the next morning before daybreak ; but I 
 went on the engine, being determined to see how that 
 bronze image looked on the permanent way when you 
 were steaming up to it. 
 
 'You ketch sight of 'im clear this side,' said Craddock, 
 ' a good two mile or more ; ef you had a telescope ten for 
 that matter. It ain't so easy t'other side with the sun 
 a-shining bang inter the eyes. And there ain't no big 
 wave as a signal over there. But Lordy ! there ain't no 
 fear of my missin' old Meditations.' 
 
 Certainly, none that morning. He showed clear, first 
 against the rosy flush of dawn, afterwards like a dark stain 
 on the red ribbon. 
 
 ' I '11 run up close to him to-day, sir,' said Craddock, ' so 
 as you shall see wot 'e 's made of.' 
 
 The whistle rang shrill over the desert of sand, which 
 lay empty of all save that streak of red with the dark stain 
 upon it ; but the stain never moved, never stirred, though 
 the snorting demon from the west came racing up to it 
 full speed. 
 
 ' Have a care, man ! Have a care ! ' I shouted ; but my 
 words were almost lost in the jar of the brake put on to the 
 utmost. Even then I could only crane round the cab with 
 my eyes fixed on that bronze image straight ahead of us. 
 Could we stop in time would it move ? Yes ! no ! yes ! 
 Slower and slower how many turns of the fly-wheel to so 
 many yards? I felt as if I were working the sum frantic- 
 ally in my head, when, with a little backward shiver, the 
 great circle of steel stopped dead, and Craddock's voice 
 came in cheerful triumph
 
 36 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 'There! didn't I tell you, sir? Ain't 'e stiddy? Ain't 
 'e a-subdooin' of mortality beautiful ? ' The next instant he 
 was out, and as he stooped to his task he flung me back a 
 look. 
 
 ' Now, sonny, you '11 'ave to move. You 're in the way 
 the permanent way, my dear.' 
 
 That was the last I saw of him for some time, for I fell 
 sick and went home. When I returned to work I found, 
 much to my surprise, that Craddock was in the same 
 appointment ; in fact, he had been promoted to drive the 
 solitary passenger train which now ran daily across the 
 desert. He had not been on the spree once, I was told ; 
 indeed, the R.E., who was of the Methodist division of 
 that gallant regiment, took great pride in a reformation 
 which, he informed me, was largely due to his religious 
 teaching combined with Departmental Discipline. 
 
 'And how is Meditations?' I asked, when the great 
 rough hand had shaken mine vehemently. 
 
 Craddock's face seemed to me to grow redder than ever. 
 "E's very well, sir, thanking you kindly. There's a native 
 driver on the Goods now. 'E's a Shiver-Martha Davy 
 lot, so I pays 'im five rupee a month to nip out sharp with 
 the stoker an' shovel 'is old saint to one side. I 'm gettin" 
 good pay now, you know, sir.' 
 
 It old him there was no reason to apologise for the 
 fact, and that I hoped it might long continue ; whereat 
 he gave a sheepish kind of laugh, and said he hoped 
 so too. 
 
 Christmas came and went uneventfully without an out- 
 break, and I could not refrain from congratulating Crad- 
 dock on one temptation safely over. 
 
 He smiled broadly.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 37 
 
 'Lor' bless you, sir/ he said, 'you didn't never think, 
 did you, that Nathaniel James Craddock, which his name 
 was given to 'im in Holy Baptism, I do assure you, was 
 going to knuckle down that way to old Hommipuddenhomel 
 'Twouldn't be fair on Christmas noways, sir, and though I 
 don't set the store 'e does on 'is spiritooal nater, I was born 
 and bred in a Christyan country, I do assure you.' 
 
 I congratulated him warmly on his sentiments, and hoped 
 again that they would last ; to which he replied as before 
 that he hoped so too. 
 
 And then Holt time came round, and, as luck would have 
 it, the place was full of riff-raff low whites going on to look 
 for work in a further section. I had to drive through the 
 bazaar on my way to the railway station, and it beat any- 
 thing I had ever seen in various vice. East and West were 
 outbidding each other in iniquity, and to make matters 
 worse, an electrical dust-storm was blowing hard. You never 
 saw such a scene ; it was pandemonium, background and all. 
 I thought I caught a glimpse of a corn-coloured beard and 
 a pair of blue eyes in a wooden balcony among tinkling 
 stitdras and jasmin chaplets, but I wasn't sure. However, 
 as I was stepping into the inspection carriage, which, as 
 usual, was the last in the train, I saw Craddock crossing 
 the platform to his engine. His white coat was all splashed 
 with the red dye they had been throwing at each other, 
 Holi fashion, in the bazaar ; his walk, to my eyes, had a 
 lilt in it, and finally, the neck of a black bottle showed 
 from one pocket. 
 
 Obedient to one of those sudden impulses which come, 
 Heaven knows why, I took my foot off the step and followed 
 him to the engine. 
 
 ' Comin' aboard, sir,' he said quite collectedly. ' You 'd
 
 38 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 be better be'ind to-night, for it 's blowin' grit fit to make 
 me a walkin' sandpaper inside and out.' And before I 
 could stop him the black bottle was at his mouth. This 
 decided me. Perhaps my face showed my thoughts, for 
 as I climbed into the cab he gave an uneasy laugh. 
 ' Don't be afraid, sir : it 's black as pitch, but I knows 
 where old Meditations comes by instinck, I do assure you. 
 One hour an' seventeen minutes from the distance signal 
 with pressure as it oughter be. Hillo ! there 's the whistle 
 and the baboo a-waving. Off we goes ! ' 
 
 As we flashed past a red light I looked at my watch. 
 
 ' Don't you be afraid, sir,' he said, again looking at his. 
 ' It 's ten to ten now, and in one hour an' seventeen 
 minutes on goes the brake. That 's the ticket for Shivers 
 and Martha Davy; though I am a Wishnyou Lucksmi* 
 He paused a moment, and as he stood put his hand on a 
 stanchion to steady himself. 
 
 ' Very much of a Wishnyou Lucksmij he went on with a 
 shake of the head. ' I 've 'ad a drop too much, and I know 
 it ; but it ain't fair on a fellar like me, 'aving so many 
 names to them, when they 're all the same a eatin' an' 
 drinkin' lot like me. There's Christen 1 you'd 'ave 
 thought he 'd 'ave been a decent chap by 'is name, but 'e 
 went on orful with them Gopis that 's Hindu for milk- 
 maids, sir. And Harry 2 well, he wasn't no better than 
 some other Harrys I 've heard on. And Canyer, 3 I expect 
 he could just about. To say nothin' of Gopi-naughty^ 
 and naughty he were, as no doubt you've heard tell, sir. 
 There's too many on them for a pore fellar who don't 
 set store by 'is spiritooal nater; especially when they 
 
 1 Kristna. 2 Hari. 3 Kaniya. 
 
 4 Copi-nath. These are all names of Vishnu in his various Avatars.
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 39 
 
 mixes themselves up with Angcore" 1 whisky, an' ginger 
 ale.' 
 
 His blue eyes had a far-away look in them, and his 
 words were fast losing independence, but I understood 
 what he meant perfectly. In that brief glimpse of the big 
 bazaar I had seen the rows of Western bottles standing 
 cheek by jowl with the bowls of doke dye, the sour curds 
 and sweetmeats of Holi-\.\&Q. 
 
 ' You had better sit down, Craddock,' I said severely, 
 for I saw that the fresh air was having its usual effect. 
 ^Perhaps if you sleep a bit you '11 be more fit for work. I '11 
 look out and wake you when you 're wanted.' 
 
 He gave a silly laugh, let go the stanchion, and drew 
 out his watch. 
 
 ' Don't you be afraid, sir ! One hour and seventeen 
 minutes from the. distance signal. I'll keep 'im out o' 
 'arm's way, an' willing, to the end of the chapter.' 
 
 He gave a lurch forward to the seat, stumbled, and the 
 watch dropped from his hand. For a moment I thought 
 he might go overboard, and I clutched at him frantically ; 
 but with another lurch and an indistinct admonition to me 
 not to be afraid, he sank into the corner of the bench and 
 was asleep in a second. Then I stooped to pick up the 
 watch, and, rather to my surprise, found it uninjured and 
 still going. 
 
 Craddock's words, ' ten minutes to ten,' recurred to me. 
 Then it would be twenty-seven minutes past eleven before 
 he was wanted. I sat down to wait, bidding the native 
 stoker keep up the fire as usual. The wind was simply 
 shrieking round us, and the sand drifted thick on Craddock's 
 still, upturned face. More than once I wiped it off, feeling 
 
 1 Encore.
 
 40 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 he might suffocate. It was the noisiest, and at the same 
 time the most silent journey I ever undertook. Pande- 
 monium, with seventy times seven of its devils let loose out- 
 side the cab ; inside Craddock asleep, or dead he might 
 have been the latter from his stillness. It became oppres- 
 sive after a time, as I remembered that other still figure, 
 miles down the track, which was so strangely bound to this 
 one beside me. The minutes seemed hours, and I felt a 
 distinct relief when the watch, which I had held in my 
 hand most of the time, told me it was seventeen minutes 
 past eleven. Only ten minutes before the brake should be 
 put on ; and Craddock would require all that time to get 
 his senses about him. 
 
 I might as well have tried to awaken a corpse, and it was 
 three minutes to the twenty-seven when I gave up the idea 
 as hopeless. Not that it mattered, since I could drive an 
 engine as well as he ; still the sense of responsibility weighed 
 heavily upon me. My hand on the brake valve trembled 
 visibly as I stood watching the minute-hand of the watch. 
 Thirty seconds before the time I put the brake on hard, 
 determining to be on the safe side. And then when I had 
 taken this precaution a perfectly unreasoning anxiety 
 seized on me. I stepped on to the footboard and craned 
 forward into the darkness which, even without the wind 
 and the driving dust, was blinding. The lights in front 
 shot slantways, showing an angle of red ballast, barred by 
 gleaming steel ; beyond that a formless void of sand. But 
 the centre of the permanent way, where that figure would be 
 sitting, was dark as death itself. What a fool I was, when 
 the great circle of the fly-wheel was slackening, slackening, 
 every second ! And yet the fear grew lest I should have 
 been too late, lest I should have made some mistake. To
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 41 
 
 appease my own folly I drew out my watch in confirmation 
 of the time. Great God ! a difference of two minutes ! 
 two whole minutes ! yet the watches had been the same 
 at the distance signal? the fall, of course ! the fall ! ! 
 
 I seemed unable to do anything but watch that slackening 
 wheel, even though I became conscious of a hand on my 
 shoulder, of some one standing beside me on the footboard. 
 No ! not standing, swaying, lurching 
 
 'Don't!' I cried. 'Don't! it's madness!' But that 
 some one was out in the darkness. Then I saw a big white 
 figure dash across the angle of light with outspread arms. 
 
 ' Now then, sonny ! yo 're in the way the permanent 
 way.' 
 
 The inspector paused, and I seemed to come back to 
 the sliding whir of the trolly wheels. In the distance a 
 semaphore was dropping its red arm, and a pointsman, like 
 a speck on the ribbon, was at work shunting us into a 
 siding. 
 
 'Well? 'I asked. 
 
 ' There isn't anything more. When a whole train goes 
 over two men who are locked in each other's arms it is 
 hard hard to tell well, which is Shivers Martha Davy, 
 and which is Wishnyou LucksmL It was right out in the 
 desert in the hot weather, no parsons or people to object; 
 so I buried them there in the permanent way.' 
 
 ' And those are tombstones, I suppose ? ' 
 
 He laughed. ' No ; altars. The native employes put 
 
 them up to their saint. The oval black upright stone is 
 
 Shiva, the Destroyer's tingam; those splashes are blood. 
 
 The flat one, decorated with flowers, is the salagrama?- 
 
 1 A fossil ammonite.
 
 42 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 sacred to Vishnu the Preserver. You see nobody really 
 knew whether old Meditations was a Saiva or a Vaishnava ; 
 so I suggested this arrangement as the men were making 
 a sectarian quarrel out of the question.' He paused again 
 and added 
 
 'You see it does for both of them.' 
 
 The jar of the points prevented me from replying.
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 IT was a three-storied house in reality, though time had 
 given it the semblance of a fourth in the mud platform 
 which led up to its only entrance. For the passing feet of 
 generations had worn down the levels of the alley outside, 
 and the toiling hands of generations had added to the level 
 of the rooms within, until those who wished to pass from 
 one to the other had to climb the connecting steps ere they 
 could reach the door. 
 
 The door itself was broad as it was high, and had a 
 strangely deformed look, since nearly half of its two 
 carven stone jambs were, of necessity, hidden behind the 
 platform. These stone jambs, square-hewn, roughly carven, 
 were the only sign of antiquity visible in the house from 
 the alley ; the rest being the usual straight-up-and-down 
 almost windowless wall built of small purplish bricks set 
 in a mortar of mud. It stood, however, a little further 
 back in the alley than its neighbours, so giving room for 
 the mud platform ; but that was its only distinction. 
 
 The alley in its turn differed in no way from the generality 
 of such alleys in the walled towns where the houses like 
 trees in a crowded plantation shoot up shoulder to shoulder, 
 as if trying to escape skywards from the yearly increasing 
 pressure of humanity. It was, briefly, a deep, dark, irregular 
 drain of a place, shadowful utterly save for the one brief 
 half-hour or so during which the sun showed in the notched 
 
 43
 
 44 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 ribbon of the sky which was visible between the uneven 
 turretings of the roof. 
 
 Yet the very sunlessness and airlessness had its ad- 
 vantages. In hot weather it brought relief from the scorch- 
 ing glare, and in the cold, such air as there was remained 
 warm even beneath a frosty sky. So that the mud platform, 
 with its possibilities of unhustled rest, was a favourite 
 gossiping place of the neighbourhood. All the more so 
 because, between it and the next house, diving down 
 through the debris of countless generations and green with 
 the slime of countless ages, lay one of those wells to which 
 the natives cling so fondly in defiance of modern sanitation 
 and water-works. But there was a third reason why the 
 platform was so much frequented ; on the second story of 
 the house to which it belonged stood the oldest Hindu 
 shrine in the city. How it came to be there no one could 
 say clearly. The Brahmins who tended it from the lower 
 story told tales of a plinthed temple built in the heroic 
 age of Prithi Raj ; but only this much was certain, that it 
 was very old, and that the steep stone ladder of a stair 
 which led up to the arched alcoves of the ante-shrine was 
 of very different date to the ordinary brick one which led 
 thence to the third story; where, among other lodgers, 
 Ramanund, B.A., lived with his widowed mother. 
 
 He was a mathematical master in a mission school, and 
 twice a day on his way to and from the exact sciences he 
 had to pass up and down the brick ladder and the stone 
 stair. And sometimes he had to stand aside on the three- 
 cornered landing where the brick and stone met, in order 
 that the women coming to worship might pass with their 
 platters of curds, their trays of cressets, and chaplets of 
 flowers into the dim ante-shrine where the light from a
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 45 
 
 stone lattice glistened faintly on the damp, oil-smeared 
 pavement. But that being necessarily when he was on his 
 way downstairs, and deep in preparation for the day's work, 
 he did not mind a minute or so of delay for further study ; 
 and he would go on with his elementary treatise on 
 logarithms until the tinkle of the anklets merged into the 
 giggle which generally followed, when in the comparative 
 seclusion of the ante-shrine, the veils could be lifted for a 
 peep at the handsome young man. But Ramanund, albeit 
 a lineal descendant of the original Brahmin priests of the 
 temple, had read Herbert Spencer and John Stuart Mill ; 
 so he would go on his way careless alike of the unseen 
 women and the unseen shrine of the mysteries of sex and 
 religion as presented in his natural environment. There 
 are dozens of young men in India nowadays in this 
 position ; who stand figuratively, as he did actually, giving 
 the go-by to one-half of life alternately, and letting the 
 cressets and the chaplets and the unseen women pass un- 
 challenged into the alcove, where the speckled light of the 
 lattice bejewelled their gay garments, and a blue cloud of 
 incense floated sideways among the dim arches. 
 
 And Ramanund was as good a specimen of this new 
 India as could be found, north or south. Not of robust 
 physique that was scarcely to be expected after generations 
 of in and in breeding, but of most acute intelligence, and, 
 by virtue of inherited spiritual distinction, singularly free 
 from the sensual, passive, acquiescence in the limitations of 
 life which brings content to the most of humanity. He was, 
 by birth, as it were, a specialised speculative machine working 
 at full pressure with a pure virtue escapement. As President 
 of a Debating Club affiliated with the 'Society for the 
 General Improvement of the People of India,' he was
 
 46 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 perhaps needlessly lavish of vague expressions such as the 
 individual rights of man ; but then he, in common with his 
 kind, have only lately become acquainted with the ideas 
 such phrases are supposed to express, and have not as yet 
 learned their exact use that being an art which history 
 tells needs centuries of national and individual struggle 
 for its attainment. 
 
 Be that as it may, even in the strict atmosphere of the 
 mission school Ramanund's only fault was that he had 
 assimilated its morality and rejected its dogma. In the 
 orthodox Hindu household upstairs, over which his 
 widowed mother ruled severely, his only crime was that he 
 refused to replace a wife, deceased of the measles at the 
 age of six, for another of the good lady's choosing. For 
 that other matter of slighting the shrine downstairs is too 
 common nowadays in India to excite any recrimination ; 
 its only effect being to make the women regard the rule 
 which forbids their eating with the men-folks, as a patent 
 of purity, instead of a sign of inferiority ; since it is a safe- 
 guard against contamination from those who, when beyond 
 the watch of secluded eyes, may have denied themselves in 
 a thousand Western ways. 
 
 Regarding the wife, however, Ramanund was firm, 
 despite the prayers that his mother offered before the 
 Goddess downstairs for his deliverance from obstinacy. 
 He used to accompany her sometimes on this errand so 
 far as the three-cornered landing, and then with a smile 
 proceed on his way to the exact sciences. Even the clang 
 of the great bell which hung in front of the idol within 
 tiptoe touch of the worshipper, as it used to come pealing 
 after him down the stairs, proclaiming that the goddess's 
 attention had been called to a new petitioner, did not bring
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 47 
 
 a comprehension of facts to his singularly clear brain. 
 Those facts being, that, rightly or wrongly, the flamboyant 
 image of Kali devi 1 which his ancestors had tended 
 faithfully was being besieged by as fervent a mother- 
 prayer as had been laid before any divinity or dev-'m\ty, as 
 the word really stands. 
 
 In truth Ramanund had no special desire to marry all ; 
 or even to fall in love. He was too busy with the exact 
 sciences to experimentalise on the suspension of the critical 
 faculty in man ; besides, he had definitely made up his 
 mind to marry a widow when he did marry. For he was 
 as great on the widow question as he was on all others 
 which appealed to his kindly moral nature. He and his 
 friends of the same stamp pleaders, clerks, and such like 
 living in the alley used to sit on the mud steps after 
 working-hours, and discuss such topics before adjourning 
 to the Debating Club ; but they always left one of the 
 flights of steps free. This was for the worshippers to pass 
 upwards to the shrine as soon as the blare of the conches, 
 the beating of drums, and the ringing of bells should 
 announce that the dread Goddess having been washed 
 and put to bed like a good little girl, her bath water was 
 available to those who wished to drink it as a charm against 
 the powers of darkness. 
 
 That was with the waning light ; but as it was a charm 
 also against the dangers of day, the dawn in its turn would 
 be disturbed by clashings and brayings to tell of Kali dcvt's 
 uprisal. Then, in the growing light, the house-mothers, 
 fresh from their grindstones, would come shuffling through 
 the alleys with a pinch or two of new-ground flour, and 
 the neighbouring Brahmins hurriedly devotional after the 
 1 Goddess.
 
 48 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 manner of priesthoods would speed up the stair (mutter- 
 ing prayers as they sped) to join for half a minute in the 
 sevenfold circling of the sacred lamps ; while, divided 
 between sleep and greed, the fat traders on their way to 
 their shops would begin business by a bid for divine favour, 
 and yawn petitions as they waddled, that the supply of 
 holy water would hold out till they arrived at the shrine. 
 
 But at this time in the morning, Ramanund would be 
 sleeping the sleep of the just upstairs, after sitting up past 
 midnight over his pupils' exercises ; for one of the first 
 effects of civilisation is to make men prefer a kerosene 
 lamp to the sun. 
 
 Now, one September when the rains, coming late and 
 ceasing early, had turned the pestilential drain in the city 
 into a patent germ propagator, the worshippers at Kali 
 devi's shrine were more numerous than ever. Indeed, one 
 or two half-hearted freethinker hangers-on to the fringe of 
 Progress and Debating Clubs began to hedge cautiously 
 by allowing their women-folk to make offerings in their 
 names ; since when cholera is choosing its victims hap- 
 hazard up and down the alleys, it is as well to insure your 
 life in every office that will accept you as a client. 
 
 Ramanund, of course, and his immediate friends, were 
 above such mean trucklings. They exerted themselves to 
 keep the alley clean, they actually subscribed to pay an 
 extra sweeper, they distributed cholera pills and the very 
 soundest advice to their neighbours; especially to those 
 who persisted in using the old well. Ramanund, indeed, 
 went so far as to circulate a pamphlet, imploring those who, 
 from mistaken religious scruples, would not drink from the 
 hydrants, to filter their water; in support of which thesis he 
 quoted learned Sanskrit texts.
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 49 
 
 *Jai Kali ma I ' * said the populace to each other where 
 they read it. ' Such talk is pure blasphemy. If She wishes 
 blood, shall She not drink it? Our fathers messed not 
 with filters. Such things bring Her wrath on the righteous ; 
 even as now in this sickness.' 
 
 Yet they spoke calmly, acquiescing in the inevitable 
 from their side of the question, just as Ramanund and his 
 like did from theirs ; for this passivity is characteristic of 
 the race, which yet needs only a casual match to make it 
 flare into fanaticism. 
 
 So time passed until one day, the moon being at the full, 
 and the alley lying mysterious utterly by reason of the 
 white shining of its turreted roofs set, as it were, upon the 
 solid darkness of the narrow lane below, a new voice broke 
 in on the reading of a paper regarding the ' Sanitation of 
 the Vedic Ages,' which Ramanund was declaiming to some 
 chosen friends. 
 
 'Jai Kali ma/' said this voice also, but the tone was 
 different, and the words rang fiercely. 'Is Her arm 
 shortened that it cannot save ? Is it straightened that it 
 cannot slay. Wait, ye fools, till the dark moon brings Her 
 night and ye shall see.' 
 
 It came from a man with an evil hemp-sodden face, and 
 a body naked save for a saffron-coloured rag, who, smeared 
 from head to foot with cowdung ashes, was squatting on 
 the threshold, daubing it with cowdung and water; for 
 the evening worshippers had passed, and he was at work 
 betimes purifying the sacred spot against the morrow's 
 festival. 
 
 The listeners turned with a start, to look at the strange 
 yet familiar figure, and Ramanund, cut short in his elo- 
 1 'Victory to Mother Kali 1' 
 D
 
 50 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 quence, frowned ; but he resumed his paper, which was in 
 English, without a pause, being quick to do battle in words 
 after the manner of New India. 
 
 'These men, base pretenders to the holiness of the 
 sr/nnycist, are the curse of the country ! Mean tricksters 
 and rogues, wandering like locusts through the land to prey 
 on the timid fears of our modest countrywomen. Men 
 who outrage the common sense in a thousand methods; 
 who ' 
 
 The man behind him laughed shortly, ' Curse on, master 
 *'ee \ ' he said ' for curses they are by the sound, though I 
 know not the tongue for sure. Yea ! curse if thou likest, 
 and praise the new wisdom ; yet thou Ramanund, Brahmin, 
 son of those who tend Her hast not forgotten the old. 
 Forget it ! How can a man forget what he learned in his 
 mother's womb, what he hath learned in his second birth ? ' 
 
 Long years after prayer has passed from a man's life, 
 the sound of the ' Our Father ' may bring him back 
 in thought to his mother's knee. So it was with Rama- 
 nund, as, in the silence which followed, he watched (by the 
 flickering light of the cresset set on the ground between 
 them) his adversary's lips moving in the secret verse which 
 none but the twice-born may repeat. It brought back to 
 him, as if it had been yesterday, the time when, half- 
 frightened, half-important, he had heard it whispered in his 
 ear for the first time. When for the first time also he had 
 felt the encircling thread of the twice-born castes on his 
 soft young body. That thread which girdled him from the 
 common herd, which happed and wrapped him round with 
 a righteousness not his own, but imputed to him by divine 
 law. Despite logarithms, despite pure morality, some- 
 thing thrilled in him half in exultation, half in fear. It was
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 51 
 
 unforgettable, and yet, in a way, he had forgotten ! For- 
 gotten what ? The question was troublesome, so he gave 
 it the go-by quickly. 
 
 ' I have not forgotten the old wisdom jdgi jfe,' he said. 
 ' I hold more of it than thou, with all thy trickery. But 
 remember this : We of the Sacred Land 1 will not stand 
 down-country cheating, and if thou art caught at it here, 
 'tis the lock-up.' 
 
 ' If I am caught,' echoed the man as he drew a small 
 earthen pot closer to him and began to stir its contents 
 with his hand, every now and again testing their con- 
 sistency by letting a few drops fall from his lifted fingers 
 back into the pot. They were thick and red, showing in 
 the dim light like blood. ' It is not we, servants of dread 
 Kali, who are caught, 'tis ye faithless ones who have 
 wandered from Her. Ye who pretend to know ' 
 
 ' A scoundrel when we see one,' broke in the school- 
 master, his high thin tones rising. ' And I do know one at 
 least. What is more, I will have thee watched by the 
 police.' 
 
 'Don't,' put in one of the others in English. 'What 
 use to rouse anger needlessly. Such men are dangerous.' 
 
 ' Dangerous ! ' echoed Ramanund. ' Their day is 
 past ' 
 
 ' The people believe in them still,' persisted another, look- 
 ing uneasily at the jogi's scowl, which, in truth, was not 
 pleasant. 
 
 'And such language is, in my poor opinion, descriptive 
 of that calculated to cause a breach of peace,' remarked a 
 rotund little pleader, ' thus .contrary to mores publico. In 
 moderation lies safety.' 
 
 1 The first Aryan settlements were in the Punjab.
 
 52 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 ' And cowardice,' retorted Ramanund, returning purposely 
 to Hindustani and keeping his eager face full on the jogi. 
 ' It is because the people, illiterate and ignorant, believe 
 in them, that I advocate resistance. Let us purge the old, 
 pure faith of our fathers from the defilements which have 
 crept in ! Let us, by the light of new wisdom revealing 
 the old, sweep from our land the nameless horrors 
 which deface it. Let us teach our illiterate brothers and 
 sisters to treat these priests of Kali as they deserve, 
 and to cease worshipping that outrage on the very name 
 of womanhood upstairs that devil drunk with blood, 
 unsexed, obscene ' 
 
 He was proceeding after his wont, stringing adjectives 
 on a single thread of meaning, when a triumphant yell 
 startled him into a pause. 
 
 '// Kali Ma I Jai Kali Ma ! ' 
 
 It seemed to fill the alley with harsh echoes blending 
 into a guttural, cruel laugh. ' So be it, brother ! Let it be 
 Kali, the Eternal Woman against thee, Ramanund the 
 Scholar! I tell thee She will stretch out Her left hand 
 so' here his own left hand, reddened with the pigment 
 he had been preparing for the purpose, printed itself upon 
 one lintel of the door, ' and her right hand so ' here his 
 right did the same for the other lintel, and he paused, 
 obviously to give effect to the situation. Indeed his 
 manner throughout had been intensely theatrical, and this 
 deft blending of the ordinary process of marking the 
 threshold, with a mysterious threat suitable to the occasion, 
 betrayed the habitual trafficker in superstitious fear. 
 
 'And then, /<?*/<?<?,' sneered Ramanund imperturbably. 
 
 'And then, master jeet' cried his adversary, his anger 
 growing at his own impotence to impress, as he clenched
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 53 
 
 his reddened hands and stooped forward to bring his scowl 
 closer to the calm contempt. ' Why, then She will draw 
 fools to Her bosom, bloody though they deem it.' 
 
 ' And if they will not be drawn ? ' 
 
 The words scarcely disturbed the stillness of the alley, 
 which was deserted save for that strange group, outlined 
 by the flicker of the cresset. On the one side, backed by 
 the cavernous darkness of the low, wide door, was the 
 naked, savage-looking figure, with its hands dripping still 
 in heavy red drops, stretched out in menace over the 
 lamp. On the other was Ramanund, backed by his friends, 
 decent, civilised, in their Western-cut white clothing. 
 
 ' Damn you you you brute ! ' 
 
 The schoolmaster seldom swore ; when he did, he used 
 English oaths. Possibly because they seemed more alien 
 to his own virtue. On this occasion several came fluently 
 as he fumbled for his pocket handkerchief; for the jogi 
 in answer to his taunt had reached out one of his red 
 hands and drawn three curving fingers down the centre 
 of Ramanund's immaculate forehead. The emblem of his 
 discarded faith, the bloody trident of Siva, showed there 
 distinctly ere the modern hemstitched handkerchief wiped 
 it away petulantly. It was gone in a second ; yet Rama- 
 nund, even as he assured himself of the fact by persistent 
 rubbing, felt that it had somehow sunk more than skin 
 deep. The knowledge made him swear the harder, and 
 struggle vehemently against his comrade's restraining 
 hands. 
 
 ' It is a case for police, and binding over to keep peace,' 
 protested the pleader soothingly. 'I will conduct same 
 even on appeals to highest court without further charge.' 
 
 ' In addition, it is infra dig. to disciples of the law and
 
 54 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 order thus to behave as the illiterate,' put in another; 
 while a third, with less theory and more practice, remarked 
 that to use violence to a priest of Kali on the threshold of 
 Her temple during Her sacred month was as much as their 
 lives were worth, since God only knew how many a silent 
 believer within earshot needed but one cry to come to the 
 rescue of Her servant, especially now when the sickness 
 was making men sensitive to Her honour. 
 
 So, in the end, outraged civilisation contented itself by 
 laying a formal charge of assault in the neighbouring police 
 station against a certain religious mendicant, name un- 
 known, supposed to have come from Benares, who, in the 
 public thoroughfare, had infringed the liberty of one of Her 
 Imperial Majesty's liege subjects by imprinting the symbol 
 of a decadent faith on his forehead. And thereinafter it 
 repaired to the Debating Club, where Ramanund recovered 
 his self-respect in a more than usually perfervid outburst 
 of eloquence. So fervid, indeed, that one of the most 
 forward lights in the province, who happened to look in, 
 swore eternal friendship on the spot ; the result being 
 that the two young men discussed every burning question 
 under the sun, as, with arms interclasped, Ramanund saw 
 his new acquaintance home to his lodgings. 
 
 Thus it was past midnight ere he returned to his own, 
 and then he was so excited, so intoxicated, as it were, by his 
 own strong words, that he strode down the narrow alley as 
 if he were marching to victory. And yet the alley itself 
 was peace personified. It was dark no longer, for the 
 great silver shield of the moon hung on the notched 
 ribbon of pale sky between the roofs, and its light with the 
 nameless message of peace which seems inherent in it 
 lay thick and white down to the very pavement. There
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 55 
 
 was scarcely a shadow anywhere save the odd foreshortened 
 image of himself which kept pace behind Ramanund's swift 
 steps like a demon driving him to his doom. 
 
 The low wide door, however, showed like a cavern, and 
 the narrow stone stair struck chill after the heat outside. 
 Perhaps that was why the young man shivered as he 
 groped his way upwards amid the lingering scent of past 
 incense, the perfume of fallen flowers, and the faint odour 
 suggestive of the gay garments which had fluttered past 
 not so long before. Or, perhaps, the twin passions of 
 Love and Worship, which even Logarithms cannot destroy, 
 were roused in him by the memory of these things. What- 
 ever it was, something made him pause to hold his breath 
 and listen on that three-cornered landing where the brick 
 and the stone met. A speckled bar of moonlight glistened 
 on the damp floor of the ante-shrine and showed a dim 
 arch or two then darkness. And all around him was that 
 penetrating odour telling of things unseen, almost unknown, 
 and yet strangely familiar to his inherited body and soul. 
 
 There was not a sound. That was as it should be when 
 gods slept like men. 
 
 When gods slept . . . ! 
 
 There was a sound now the sound of his own con- 
 temptuous laugh as he remembered his defiance of such 
 divinities the sound of his own steps as he passed 
 suddenly, impulsively, into the ante-shrine, feeling it was 
 time for such as he to worship while She slept, helpless as 
 humanity itself. 
 
 It was almost dark in the low-arched corridors with 
 their massive pillars surrounding the central chamber on 
 all sides. But there, in the Holy of Holies, two smoking, 
 swinging lamps threw a yellow glare on the carved stone
 
 56 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 canopy which reached up into the shadows of the vaulted 
 roof. And by their light the hideous figure of the idol 
 could be half-seen, half-imagined through the fretted panels 
 of the iron doors fast-locked on Her sleep ; fretted panels 
 giving glimpses, no more, of flamboyant arms crimson as 
 blood, and hung with faded flowers. Blood and flowers, 
 blood and flowers, blending strangely with that lingering 
 perfume of Womanhood and Worship with which the air 
 was heavy. 
 
 Hark ! what was that ? A step ? Impossible, surely, 
 at that hour of the night when even gods sleep ! And yet 
 he drew back hastily into the further shadows, forgetful of 
 everything save sheer annoyance at the chance of being 
 discovered in Kali's shrine. He of all men in the city ! 
 
 Yes ! it was a step in the ante-shrine. A light step ; and 
 there, emerging from the darkness of the corridors, was a 
 figure. A woman's figure or was it a child's? draped 
 from head to foot in white. Ramanund felt a throb of 
 philanthropic pity thrill through heart and brain even in 
 his relief; for this was some poor widow, no doubt, come 
 on the sly to offer her ill-omened l prayers, and though he 
 might rely on her rapt devotion allowing him to steal round 
 the corridors unobserved, the thought of the reason why 
 she had come alone filled him with compassion partly 
 because he was in truth a kindly soul, partly because he 
 was, as it were, pledged to such compassion. 
 
 A widow certainly; and yet surely little more than a child! 
 So slender, so small was she that even on tiptoe her out- 
 stretched hand could not reach the clapper of the big bell 
 which hung above her head. Once, twice, thrice, she 
 tried ; standing full in the flare of the lamp, her veil falling 
 1 A widow brings ill-luck with her.
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 57 
 
 back from the dark head, close-cropped like a boy's, and 
 roughened almost into curls. Something in the sight 
 made Ramanund hold his breath again as he watched the 
 disappointment grow to the small, passionate face. 
 
 ' She will not listen She will not hear ! No one ever 
 listens no one . . .' 
 
 It was not a cry ; it was only a girl's whisper with a note 
 of girlish fear rising above its pain, but it echoed like a 
 reveille to something which had till then been asleep in 
 Ramanund. Not listen ! Was he not there in the dark 
 listening ? Was he not ready to help ? God ! how young 
 and slender she was down there on her knees thrusting the 
 chaplets she had brought through the fretwork fiercely . . . 
 
 1 Mai Kali! Mail Listen! Listen!' The clear, sharp 
 voice rang passionately now, echoing through the arches. 
 ' What have I done, Mother, to be accursed ? Why didst 
 Thou take him from me my beautiful young husband 
 for they tell me he was young and beautiful. And now 
 they say that Thou sendest the other for my lover thy 
 priest ! But I will not, Mother, if they kill me for it. 
 Thou wouldst not give thyself to such as he, Kali, ugly as 
 Thou art and I am pretty. Far prettier than the other 
 girls who have husbands. Mai Kali ! listen this once 
 this once only ! Kill me now when Thou art killing so 
 many, and give me a husband in the next life ; or let me go 
 let me be free free to choose my own way my own 
 lover. Mother ! Mother ! if Thou wouldst only wake ! if 
 Thou wouldst only listen ! if Thou wouldst only look and 
 see how pretty I am ! ' 
 
 Her voice died away amid that mingled perfume of love 
 and worship, of sex and religion, which seemed to lie heavy 
 on the breath, making it come short. . . .
 
 58 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 Truly the gods might sleep, but man waked ! There, in 
 the shadow, a man looked and listened till pity and passion 
 set his brain and heart on fire. 
 
 The girl had risen to her feet again in her last hopeless 
 appeal, and now stood once more looking upwards at the 
 silent bell, her hands, empty of their chaplets, clenched in 
 angry despair, and a world of baffled life and youth in her 
 childish face. 
 
 ' She will not listen ! She will not wake ! ' The whisper, 
 with its note of fear in it, ended in a booming clang which 
 forced a vibrating response from the dim arches as 
 Ramanund's nervous hand smote the big bell full and fair. 
 She turned with a low cry, then stood silent till a slow 
 smile came to her face. 
 
 Mai Kali had wakened indeed ! She had listened also, 
 and the lover had come. . 
 
 ii 
 
 The moonlit nights which had so often shown two ghost- 
 like figures amid the shadows of Kali's shrine had given 
 place to dark ones. And now, save for a whisper, there 
 was no sign of life beneath the dim arches, since, as a rule, 
 those two Ramanund, and the woman Fate had sent him 
 shunned the smoky flare of the lamps, and the half-seen 
 watchfulness of that hideous figure within the closed fret- 
 work doors. Yet sometimes little Anunda would insist 
 on their sitting right in the very threshold of the Mother 
 who, she said, would be angry if they distrusted Her. But 
 at other times she would meet her lover, finger to lip, and 
 lead him hastily to the darkest corner, lest he should wake
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 59 
 
 the goddess to direful anger at this desecration of Her 
 holy place. Then again, she would laugh recklessly, hang 
 the chaplets she had brought with her round his neck, 
 cense him with sweet matches, and tell him, truthfully, 
 that he was the only god she feared. 
 
 Altogether, as he sat with his arm round her, Ramanund 
 used often to wonder helplessly if it were not all a dream. 
 If so, it was not the calm, controlled dream he had cherished 
 as the love-story suitable to a professor of mathematics. 
 The heroine of that was to have been wise, perhaps a little 
 sad, and Anunda was well ! it was difficult to say what 
 she was, save absolutely entrancing in her every mood. 
 She was like a firefly on a dark night, flashing here and 
 there, brilliantly, lucidly; yet giving no clue to her own 
 self except this that she did not match with the exact 
 sciences. Nor, for the matter of that, with the situation ; 
 for there were grave dangers in these nightly assigna- 
 tions. 
 
 In addition, their surroundings were anything but 
 cheerful, anything but suitable to dreams. Cholera had 
 the whole city in its grip now, and as those two had 
 whispered of Love and Life, many a soul, within earshot of 
 a man's raised voice, had passed out of both into the grave. 
 But Anunda never seemed to think of these things. She 
 was the bravest and yet the timidest child alive; at least so 
 Ramanund used to tell her fondly when she laughed at 
 discovery, and yet trembled at the very idea of marriage. 
 
 Honestly, she would have been quite satisfied to have 
 him as her lover only, but for the impossibility of keeping 
 him on those terms. An impossibility because as she 
 told him with tears she was only on a visit to the 
 Brahmins downstairs, and would have to return homewards
 
 60 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 when the dark month of Kali-worship was over. And here 
 followed one of those tales scarcely credible to English 
 ears of the cold-blooded profligacy to which widows have 
 to yield as the only means of making their lives bearable. 
 Whereat Ramanund set his teeth and swore he would have 
 revenge some day. Meanwhile it made him all the more 
 determined to save her, and at the same time realise his 
 cherished dream of defying his world by marrying a widow. 
 Yet his boldness only had the effect of making little 
 Anunda more timid and cautious. 
 
 'What need for names, my lord,' she would say evasively 
 when he pressed her for particulars of her past. ' Is it not 
 enough that I am of pure Brahmin race. Before Kali, my 
 lord need have no fears for that, and I have found favour 
 in my lord's eyes. What, then, are the others to my lord ? 
 Let the wicked ones go.' 
 
 ' But if people do such things they should be punished 
 by the law,' fumed Ramanund, who, even with her arms 
 round him, and a chaplet of chumpak blossom encircling 
 his neck, could not quite forget that he was a school- 
 master. c You forget that we live in a new age, or perhaps 
 you do not know it. That is one of the things I must 
 teach you, sweetheart, when we are married.' 
 
 The slender bit of a hand which lay in his gave a queer 
 little clasp of denial, and the close-cropped head on his 
 shoulder stirred in a shake of incredulity. 
 
 'We cannot marry. I am a widow. It would be better 
 
 so ' and the ' so ' was made doubly eloquent by the 
 
 quiver of content with which, yielding to the pressure of 
 his arm, she nestled closer to him. Ramanund's brain 
 whirled, as she had a knack of making it whirl, but he 
 stuck to his point manfully
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 61 
 
 { Silly child ! Of course we can marry. The law does 
 not forbid it, and that is all we have to think of. It is 
 legal, and no one has a right to interfere. Besides, as I 
 told you, it is quite easy. To-morrow, the darkest night 
 of Kali's month, is our opportunity. Every one will be 
 wearied out by excitement' here his face hardened and 
 his voice rose. ' Excitement ! I tell you it is disgraceful 
 that these sacrifices should be permitted. I admit they 
 are nothing here to what they are down-country, but we 
 of the Sacred Land should set an example. The law 
 should interfere to stop such demoralising, brutalising 
 scenes. If we, the educated, were only allowed a voice 
 in such matters, if we were not gagged and blindfolded 
 
 from engaging in the amelioration of our native land ' 
 
 he paused, and pulled himself up by bending down to kiss 
 her in Western fashion, whereat she hid her face in quick 
 shame, for modesty is as much a matter of custom as 
 anything else. ' But I will teach you all this when we 
 are married. To-morrow, then, in the hour before dawn, 
 when the worshippers will be drunk with wine and blood, 
 you will meet me on the landing not here, child, this 
 will be no sight for you or me then. Ah ! it is horrible 
 
 even to think of it ; the blood, the needless, reckless ' 
 
 Again he pulled himself up and went on : ' I shall have a 
 hired carriage at the end of the alley in which we will drive 
 to the railway station ; and then, Anunda, it will only be 
 two tickets two railway tickets.' 
 
 ' Two railway tickets,' echoed Ananda in muffled tones 
 
 from his shoulder; 'I came up in the railway from ' 
 
 She paused, then added quickly : ' They put me in a cage, 
 and I cried.' 
 
 'You will not be put in a cage this time,' replied Ram-
 
 62 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 anund with a superior smile ; ' you will come with me, and 
 we will go to Benares.' 
 
 Her face came up to his this time anxiously. ' Benares ? 
 Why Benares ? ' 
 
 'Because good and evil come alike from Benares,' he 
 answered exultantly. ' Mayhap you have been there, 
 Anunda, and seen the evil, the superstition. But it is in 
 Benares also that the true faith lives still. My friend 
 has written to his friends there, and they will receive us 
 with open arms ; virtuous women will shelter you till the 
 marriage arrangements are complete.' 
 
 She shook her head faintly. ' We cannot be married 
 I am a widow,' she repeated obstinately; 'but I will go 
 with you all the same.' Then, seeing a certain reproach 
 in his face, she frowned. 'Dost think I am wicked, my 
 lord? I am not wicked at all; but Mai Kali gave me 
 a lover, not a husband.' Here the frown relaxed into a 
 brilliant smile. ' My husband is dead, and I do not care 
 for dead men. I care for you, my lord, my god.' 
 
 Ramanund's brain whirled again, but he clung to the 
 first part of her speech as a safeguard. 
 
 'You are foolish to say we cannot be married. If 
 you read the newspapers you would see that widows 
 child-widows such as you are, heart's-delight are married, 
 regularly married by priests of our religion. Those old 
 days of persecution are over, Anunda. The law has legalised 
 such unions, and no one dare say a word.' 
 
 A comical look came to her brilliant little face. ' And 
 my lord's mother will she say nothing?' 
 
 The question pierced even Ramanund's coat of cul- 
 ture. He fully intended telling his revered parent of his 
 approaching marriage, and the thought of doing so, even
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 63 
 
 in the general way which he proposed to himself, was fraught 
 with sheer terror. What then would it be when he had to 
 present her with this daughter-in-law in the concrete ? He 
 took refuge from realities by giving a lecture on the in- 
 dividual rights of man, while Ananda played like a child 
 with the chumfak garland with which she had adorned him. 
 
 And so with a grey glimmer the rapid dawn began to 
 dispute possession of those dim arches with the smoky 
 flare of the lamps, making those two rise reluctantly and 
 steal with echoing footsteps past the malignant, half-seen 
 figure behind the closed fretwork doors. The blood-red 
 glint of those outstretched arms, with their suggestion of 
 clasping and closing on all within their reach, must have 
 roused a reminiscence of that past defiance in the young 
 schoolmaster's brain ; for he paused before the shrine, his 
 arm still round Anunda, to say triumphantly 
 
 ' Good-bye, Kali mat ! Good-bye for ever.' 
 
 The girl, clinging to him fearfully, looked round into 
 the shadows on either side. ' Hush, my lord'; who knows 
 whether She really sleeps ? and She is in dangerous mood. 
 They say so.' Her light foot marked her meaning by a 
 tap on the echoey floor. 
 
 1 What, reckless one ! ' said her lover, in fond jest. 
 'Hast grown so full of courage that thou wouldst signal 
 them to come ? Art not afraid what they might do ? ' 
 
 The panic on her face startled him. 'Ramu,' she 
 whispered, ' for my sake say it once "Jai Kali ma I " Say 
 it; it will not hurt.' 
 
 'Nothing will hurt, Anunda,' he answered sharply. 
 ' Nothing can hurt.' 
 
 ' Can it not ? Sometimes I have fancied, downstairs, 
 that they suspect, Ramu ! if '
 
 64 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 'If they do, what then? To-morrow will see us far 
 away. I tell you the times are changed. Why, there is 
 a police station within hail almost. Nay, sweetheart ! I will 
 not say it. Come, the dawn breaks.' 
 
 ' For my sake, Ramu, for my sake,' she pleaded, even 
 as he drew her with him, reluctant yet willing. 
 r^And now, on the landing where the brick and the stone 
 met, he paused again, his pulses throbbing with passion, 
 to think that this was their last parting. 
 
 ' Take heart, beloved,' he whispered. ' Sure I am Ram, 
 and thou art Anunda. Who can hinder God's happiness 
 when He gives it ? ' l 
 
 The conceit upon the meaning of their names brought 
 a faint smile to her face, and yet once more she whispered 
 doubtfully : ' But this fs happiness. Ah, Ramu ! it would 
 be better so ' 
 
 'It will be better,' he corrected. 'It is quite easy, 
 heart's beloved. A hired carriage and two railway tickets, 
 that is all ! As for Mai Kali I defy her ! ' 
 
 Suddenly through the darkness, which seemed to hold 
 them closer to each other, came a sound making them 
 start asunder. It was the clang of the bell which hung 
 before the shrine. 
 
 * Kali ma I Kali ma I* Anunda's pitiful little sobbing 
 cry blent with the clang as she fled downstairs, and the 
 mingled sound sent a strange thrill of fear to Ramanund's 
 heart. Kali herself could not have heard; but if there 
 had been others beside themselves amid the shadows? 
 
 He climbed to his lodging on the roof full of vague 
 anxiety and honest relief that the strain and the stress 
 and the passion of the last fortnight was so nearly at an 
 1 Ram anund : Ram, God ; anund, happiness.
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 65 
 
 end. It was lucky, he told himself, that it had happened 
 during holiday -time, or the exact sciences must have 
 suffered for of course the idea of Anunda's yielding to 
 them was preposterous Anunda, who had made him forget 
 everything save that he was her lover. He fell asleep 
 thinking of her, and slept even through the wailing which 
 arose ere long in the next lodging. The wailing of a 
 household over an only son reft from it by Kali ma. 
 
 'The wrath of the gods is on the house,' said Ram- 
 anund's widowed mother when he came down late next 
 morning. 'And I wonder not when children disobey their 
 parents. But I will hear thy excuses no longer, Ramo. 
 God knows but my slackness hitherto hath been the cause 
 of that poor boy's death. The holy man downstairs holds 
 that She is angry for our want of faith, and many folks 
 believe him, and vow some sacrifice of purification. So 
 shall I, Ramanund. This very day I will speak to my 
 cousin Gungo of her daughter.' 
 
 'Thou wilt do nothing of the kind, mother,' replied 
 Ramanund quietly. 'I have made my own arrange- 
 ments. I am going to marry a widow, a young and virtuous 
 widow.' 
 
 He felt dimly surprised at his own courage, perhaps a 
 little elated, seeing how severe the qualms of anticipation 
 had been ; so he looked his mother in the face fairly as, 
 startled out of all senses save sight, she stared at him as 
 if he had been a ghost. Then suddenly she threw her 
 arms above her head and beat her palms together fiercely. 
 
 ' Mai Kali! Mai Kali! justly art Thou incensed. Ai ! 
 Kirpo ! Ai ! Bishun ! listen, hear. This is the cause. My 
 son, the light of mine eyes, the son of my prayers, has done 
 this thing. He is the cursed one ! He would bring a 
 
 E
 
 66 
 
 widow to a Brahmin hearth. Jai Kali ma I Jai Kali 
 ma I' 
 
 1 Mother ! mother ! for God's sake/ pleaded Ramanund, 
 aghast at the prospect of having the secret of his heart 
 made bazaar property. ' Think ; give me time.' 
 
 ' Time ! ' she echoed wildly. ' What time is there when 
 folks die every minute for thy sin ? O Ramo, son of my 
 prayer, repent do atonement. Lo ! come with me even now 
 and humble thyself before Her feet. I will ask no more 
 but that to-day no more.' She thrust her hands feverishly 
 into his, as if to drag him to the shrine. ' For my sake, 
 Ramo, for the sake of many a poor mother, remember 
 whose son thou art, and forsake not thy fathers utterly.' 
 
 ' Mother ! ' he faltered, ' mother ! ' And then silence 
 fell between them. For what words could bridge the gulf 
 which the rapid flood of another nation's learning had torn 
 between these two ? A gulf not worn away by generations 
 of culture, but reft recklessly through solid earth. Simply, 
 there was nothing, he felt, to be said, as, with a heart aching 
 at the utter impossibility of their ever understanding each 
 other, he did his best to sooth her superstitious fears. 
 
 But here he was met by a conviction, an obstinacy 
 which surprised him ; for he had been too much occupied 
 during the last fortnight to observe the signs of the times 
 around him, and knew nothing of the religious terror 
 which, carefully fomented by the priests as a means of 
 extortion, had seized upon the neighbourhood. When, 
 however, it did dawn upon him that the general consensus 
 of opinion lay towards a signal expression of the Goddess's 
 anger, which needed signal propitiation by more numerous 
 sacrifices, his indignation knew no bounds, and carried him 
 beyond the personal question into general condemnation,
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 67 
 
 so that, ere many minutes were over, she was attempting 
 to soothe him in her turn. That God was above all was, 
 however, their one bond of unity ; in that they both agreed. 
 The truth would be made manifest by the sickness being 
 stayed or increased by the sacrifices. Meanwhile the very 
 thought of these latter, while it roused his anger, horrified 
 his refinement into a certain silence, and kept him prisoner 
 to the roof all day for fear of meeting some struggling 
 victim on its way upstairs to the second story. This did 
 not matter so much, however, since all his arrangements 
 were made, and he had even taken the precaution to 
 secure his railway tickets through a branch of Cook's 
 agency which had been lately opened in the city. He 
 took them out of his pocket sometimes, and looked at 
 them, feeling a vague comfort in their smug civilised ap- 
 pearance. Fate must needs be commonplace and secure 
 surely, with such vouchers for safe conduct as these ! 
 
 So the long hot day dragged its slow length along. 
 Every now and again the death-wail, near or distant, would 
 rise in even, discordant rhythm on the hot air ; and as the 
 sun set it began, loudly imperative, under his very roof. 
 The only son was being carried out to the burning ghdt, 
 and the cries and sobs utterly overwhelmed the shouts and 
 shufflings of feet, the moans and murmur of voices, which 
 all day long had come from the second story. It was a 
 relief that it should be so ; that the ear might no longer 
 be all unwillingly on the strain to catch some sound 
 that would tell of a death-struggle in the slaughter-house 
 downstairs. And yet the scene being enacted, perchance, 
 on that three-cornered landing, which, for once, visualized 
 itself to Ramanund's clear brain, was not one in which to 
 find much consolation. The crowds of mourners edging
 
 68 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 the bier down the narrow stairs, the crowd of worshippers 
 dragging the victims up. He wondered which stood aside 
 to give place to the other the Living or the Dead, the 
 flowered-decked corpse or the flower-decked victim? 
 Flowers and blood ! Blood and flowers for a Demon of 
 Death who was satisfied with neither ! Ramanund, excited, 
 overstrained, wearied by many a sleepless night of happi- 
 ness, covered his face with his hands to shut out the sight 
 even of the book which he tried to read. 
 
 So, as the sun sank red in the western haze, leaving the 
 roof cooler, he fell asleep and slept soundly. 
 
 When he woke it was dark; and yet, as he stood up 
 stretching himself, a faint paling of the horizon warned 
 him that there was light beneath it light that was coming 
 to the world. The moon? Confused as he was by sleep, 
 the thought came to him, only to be set aside by memory. 
 There was no moon, for this was the dark night of Kali. 
 
 The dark night ! Then that must be the dawn when he 
 had promised to meet Anunda on the threshold ! Was it 
 possible that he had slept so long? Yet not too long, 
 since the dawn had not yet come, and he was ready. 
 Hurriedly feeling for the safety of those precious tickets, 
 and taking up a Gladstone bag which he had already 
 packed, he stole down from the roof cautiously, and from 
 thence to the landing. There was a new odour now blend- 
 ing with the perfumes of the flowers, and the incense, and 
 the women, an odour which sickened him as he stood 
 waiting and watching in the now deserted threshold. It 
 was the odour of the shambles, an odour which seemed 
 also to lie heavy on the breath, and shorten it. 
 
 So by quick strides the grey glimmer through the stone 
 lattice grew and grew to whiteness. Yet no one came, and
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 69 
 
 there was no light step on the staircase below to tell of a 
 late-comer. 
 
 ' Anunda ! Anunda!' he whispered more than once, even 
 his low tones seeming to stir the heavy atmosphere into 
 waves of sweet sickening perfume. Was it possible that 
 she was waiting for him within in the old place ? 
 
 That must be it, surely, or else something had happened. 
 What ? 
 
 With a beating heart he moved on into the ante-shrine 
 picking his steps in an almost morbid terror of what he 
 might be treading upon. 
 
 'Anunda! Anunda!' 
 
 There was no answer save, heavier than before, that sort 
 of scented wave coming back from his own words. 
 
 She was not there, and something must have happened. 
 . . . Not there ! Impossible, with those tickets in his 
 pocket, that hired carriage waiting at the end of the alley, 
 that police station round the corner ! . . . 
 
 He strode forward with renewed courage, heedless of 
 the damp clamminess at his feet; strode recklessly right 
 into the yellow flare of the lamps. Save for that ghastly 
 crimson upon the floor, the walls, the canopy, the place lay 
 unchanged, and quiet as the grave. No ! there was a 
 change the iron doors were open, and there, upon the low 
 stone slab before those clutching arms, lay something. . . . 
 
 God in heaven ! what was it ? 
 
 A head a small dark 
 
 Ramanund's scream caught in the big bell which hung 
 above him, and the last thing he heard, as he fell forward 
 on that crimson floor, was its faint booming echo of his 
 own cry.
 
 70 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 When he came to himself again, six weeks had passed 
 by. The heat was over, the cholera had gone, and he lay 
 in one of the new wards of a new hospital whither his 
 anxious friends had had him conveyed when they found 
 how ill he was. The very strangeness of his environment 
 held him silent for the first few moments of consciousness ; 
 then with a rush it all came back upon him, and, weak as 
 he was, he sat up in bed wildly. 
 
 ' Anunda! Anunda! My God! the shrine! the blood!' 
 
 'It is a bad sign,' remarked the doctor to one of his 
 friends significantly when they had persuaded him to lie 
 down again quietly, more from inability to sit up than 
 from obedience. 'It is a bad sign when the delusions 
 remain after the fever has left the brain. However, it is 
 early days yet, and we must hope for the best.' 
 
 'You should rid your mind of such things,' said 
 the pleader a week or two afterwards, when, despite 
 Ramanund's growing strength of body, he still reverted 
 again and again to that terrible dark night of Kali, im- 
 ploring them to search out the criminals and have them 
 brought to justice. 'There is, pardon me, not a tittle of 
 evidence for truth of your story ; but circumstantial proof 
 to the contrary, as I will state categorically. First, known 
 dislike to and hatred for Kali and such like, leading to 
 language in my hearing calculated to break the peace. 
 Second, known excitement consequent perhaps on general 
 sickness, stress of examinations before holiday times, and 
 such like, leading to general look of fatigue and absent- 
 mindedness noticeable to friends, as myself. Third, known 
 physical horror of blood, leading to much recrimination of 
 sacrifices, and such like ; even to extent of shutting your- 
 self up all day, as per mother's evidence, from fear of
 
 ON THE SECOND STORY 71 
 
 disagreeables. Finally, profound feverish sleep, watched 
 by same mother with dubiosity several times, ending in 
 sleep-walk to the reeking shrine, where you are found by 
 Brahmins after dawn unconscious. What can be closer 
 chain of convincing proof?' 
 
 'We have made every inquiry,' said his other friends 
 soothingly, 'short of informing the police; and we can 
 find no trace of what you assert. Human sacrifices in 
 times of great sickness may sometimes, doubtless, be on 
 the fact's, but this one we believe is but figment of a still 
 clouded brain. You must have patience. All will come 
 clear in time.' 
 
 And when he asked for his new friend, the friend in 
 whom he had partly confided his love-story, they shook 
 their heads sadly. 'He was almost the last victim to 
 cholera,' they said; 'the cause has lost a shining light. 
 All the more need, Ramanund, why thou shouldst shake 
 off these idle fancies, and be our leader to perfect freedom 
 of thought and action.' 
 
 Perfect freedom of thought and action ! Ramanund, as 
 he lay slowly recovering of his brain fever, wondered if he 
 would ever have the heart to b eve in such a thing again 
 wondered if he would ever again dare to call himself a 
 representative of India that India which had killed 
 Anunda. For that the horrible sight he had seen on the 
 slab of stone beneath Kali's clutching arms was no dream 
 or delusion, but a reality, he never for an instant doubted. 
 Why they had done her to death was the only uncertainty 
 which tortured him as he lay hopelessly silent silent 
 because there was no use in words when none believed 
 them. Had it been simply a religious sacrifice to stay 
 the plague a sacrifice known to thousandsj who would
 
 72 ON THE SECOND STORY 
 
 guard the secret as a divine obligation, the choice falling, 
 naturally enough, on one who was a stranger, and utterly 
 helpless in the hands of her priestly relations ? Or was it 
 merely the jdgF s revenge for his challenge? Or was it 
 jealousy? Had they discovered the intrigue, and was the 
 man who had drawn the trident of Siva on his forehead 
 also the man of whom poor little Anunda had spoken with 
 such terror? Yet what did it matter, since she was dead? 
 What did anything matter beside the memory of that 
 piteous whisper, ' O Ramu ! it would be better so ' 
 
 Ah ! why had he tried to interfere with the old ways ? 
 why had he sought for more why had he not let her be 
 happy while she could, in her own way? 
 
 When he left the hospital he found his mother installed 
 in a new lodging. It would not be good for him, his 
 friends had said, to return to the old environment while 
 his mind was still clouded by delusions, so she had per- 
 formed the utmost act of self-denial of which a Hindu 
 woman is capable, and removed herself and her belongings 
 from the house where she had lived her life. But she 
 would have done anything for Ramanund at any time; 
 how much more so now, when the Goddess had shown 
 that She still held him as her faithful servant by signs 
 and wonders. Had She not drawn him in his sleep to 
 Her very feet, on Her dark night ? he who would never 
 cross Her threshold ! And had he not been found there 
 prostrate amid the blood of sacrifices, with one of Her 
 garlands round his neck? he who would never wear a 
 flower ! 
 
 1 A garland,' faltered Ramanund when she told him this 
 exultantly. Ay ! a garland which she would cherish as her 
 dearest possession, since the Goddess Herself must have
 
 OX THE SECOND STORY 73 
 
 thrown it around him a garland which she should show 
 him if if he ever again talked foolishness as he had 
 talked that day when he had frightened her so, not knowing 
 that he was already in a fever. 
 
 'Show it me now, mother,' he said quietly. 
 
 So she showed it to him. The chumpak blossoms were 
 but yellow shreds upon a string, scentless, unrecognisable, 
 here and there clogged black with the blood of sacrifice 
 which had stained them as he fell. 
 
 ' Take it away ! ' he cried fiercely, thrusting it from him. 
 ' Take it away ! Oh ! curses on the cruelty curses on 
 the ' 
 
 'Jai Kali Ma/' interrupted his mother as she laid the 
 relic back in the little casket whence she had taken it. 
 l jai Kali Ma ! for She stayed the sickness.' 
 
 Ramanund looked at her in dull, dazed wonder. But 
 it was true what she said. The cholera had slackened 
 from that very time when he had been found lying at the 
 Goddess's feet.
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 THIS is the story of a backwater one of those still 
 nooks sheltered by sedges whither the sere and yellow 
 leaves drift and rest, while the current beyond slips by 
 swift as ever. Why this particular backwater should have 
 called itself a Technical School of Art Needlework has 
 nothing to do with the story. Briefly, it was a sort of 
 almshouse where twelve old Mohammedan ladies drew a 
 poor monthly pittance of some few rupees, and sat con- 
 tentedly enough year after year twining gold thread on to 
 fine net. What became of the work when it was done 
 has also nothing to do with the story. Perhaps it was 
 sold to eke out the funds of a charity which did its fair 
 share of solacing sorrow in keeping twelve pairs of small, 
 soft, high-bred hands from the quern-handle that last 
 resource of the poor in India now, as it was when the 
 Great Mogul refused to allow the importation of Western 
 machinery, on the ground that God's best gift to the poor 
 was the millstone about their necks. 
 
 It was in this odd little courtyard, packed away de- 
 corously in the very heart of the loose-living, gambling, 
 gold-workers' quarter, that Glory-of-Woman found shelter 
 after many years of patient, peaceful privation ; for Fakr- 
 un-nissa (that was how her name ran in the soft, courtly 
 tongue of the most brutal of cities) was a Syyedani in 
 other words, of the poorest and proudest, too poor to bring 
 
 74
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 75 
 
 a dowry to a husband of her own rank, too generous to take 
 one without it, too proud to stoop to a partner beneath 
 her or rather, too gentle, too conservative. There are 
 hundreds such women in Delhi, and Fakr-un-nissa had 
 been more fortunate than most, seeing that, being learned 
 in the Koran, she had kept body and soul together by 
 recitations at fast and festival in the zenanas, and so been 
 spared hard labour. Perhaps it was this which made her 
 look younger than her fifty and odd years ; at all events 
 there was scarcely a wrinkle on her small, oval face, and 
 her tall, slender figure showed no sign of age. 
 
 She was the youngest of the scholars, and every evening 
 when the gold thread and the filmy net had been locked 
 away in a queer little carven coffer, she was the last to slip 
 her small feet into one of those twelve pairs of curly shoes 
 which all day long had been ranged against the slip of wall 
 doing duty as a screen at the door, and the last to use the 
 rickety dhoolie which the charity provided for the modest 
 conveyance of the fair ones to their homes. It provided a 
 chaperone too, in the shape of a big lump of a girl about 
 twenty, who sat on the steps all day chattering to the 
 passers-by, giggling at their jokes, and chewing pan. It 
 was a queer arrangement, seeing that Khadjiya Khanum, 
 the eldest of the scholars, was past eighty ; but then age 
 had nothing to do with the fact that she was a Syyedani^ 
 and Juntu only a gadabout. There was another pair of 
 shoes, however, placed in a corner apart from the rest ; for 
 it had come to be a recognised custom in the backwater 
 that there should always be a thirteenth pair of feet ready 
 to slip into any vacancy made by the sure decay which 
 comes alike to rest as to unrest. And so, five years before, 
 when Fakr-un-nissa had stepped into the last pair of shoes
 
 76 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 left by a deserted wife who had gone down into the grave 
 leaving one forlorn daughter behind her, the old ladies 
 had cast about to choose a suitable aspirant. Not that 
 they really had the right to appoint any one, but because 
 experience showed them that the claims of a gratuitous 
 worker were seldom overlooked when opportunity came 
 for urging them. This time the choice fell, naturally 
 enough, on the daughter of the dead scholar. Just in 
 her 'teens, she was hopelessly alone in the world ; for her 
 mother, after estranging her own people by a marriage 
 with a Mohammedan Rajpoot, had quarrelled with her 
 husband's family; but not before little Yasmin had been 
 married, and had, according to the Ranghar custom, become 
 a widow for life by the death of her childish bridegroom. 
 For race is stronger than religion, and the old Rajpoot 
 ideas have survived conversion. So Yasmin in her turn 
 waited for a vacancy in the shoes; or rather Noor-banu 
 waited, since the old ladies would have nothing to do 
 with the flowery, half-heathen name, and set themselves 
 diligently to transform her into a ' Lady-of-light.' It was 
 not altogether a successful attempt, for the girl's wild 
 Rajpoot blood waxed rebellious sometimes ; but as a rule 
 Fakr-un-nissa's soft voice, with its polished periods and 
 careful intonation, would bring her back to obedience. 
 
 'Lo! thou slwuldst mind me, Heart's Delight,' Glory- 
 of- Woman would say with a smile. ' Do I not stand in thy 
 mother's shoes? Thou art young now, Yasmina; so was 
 I once ; yet thou wilt be as I am, some day.' 
 
 And Yasmina would make a face. ' Well ! that is better 
 than being like Khadjiya Khanum, or Maimana Begum 
 with her little eyes.' 
 
 So the years passed, bringing no blank to the roll of
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 77 
 
 high-sounding names, no break in the row of shoes, no 
 vacant place in the semicircle of old women which chased 
 the sunshine round the court during the cold months, and 
 the shade during the hot ones. For they felt the stress 
 of the seasons in their old bones. Otherwise winter and 
 summer were alike to them ; as was the green leaf and the 
 sere, since they had never seen either. But Yasmin felt 
 the spring-time in her blood, and began to weary of being 
 at every one's beck and call. 
 
 ' She is a Ranghar ! Bury a dog's tail for twelve years, 
 and it will still be crooked,' said Maimana Begum. She 
 was full to the brim of proverbial wisdom, and had a little 
 clique of her own in that semicircle of flimsy net, glitter- 
 ing gold thread, and withered hands. Mumtaza Mahul's 
 head, and those of half a dozen Lights, or Desires, or 
 Ornaments of the Palace, the World, or of Woman, wagged 
 in assent to her words. It was easy to change a name, but 
 not a nature ; and had every one heard that some one had 
 seen Noor-Banu talking to a woman with whom she ought 
 not to have been talking? 
 
 Glory-of- Woman's thin face grew eager. ' Tis a cousin, 
 Mai Khadjiya. The girl told me of it, and I have inquired. 
 A cousin of the father's, married yea ! married, indeed, 
 to a trooper, like he is, serving the Sirkar somewhere. 
 Such folks lose hold on old ways, yet mean no harm. 
 We must not judge them as ourselves.' 
 
 ' Wdh, Fakr-un-nissa ! Wouldst say the Devil meant 
 no harm next ? Thy heart spoils thy faith. I marvel at 
 thee, thou who dost fast and pray more than is needful.' 
 
 The ring of bitterness in old Khadjiya's tones was 
 explained by the fact that it was nigh the end of the first 
 ten days' fast of Mohurrum-tide, and she had not chosen
 
 78 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 that any, despite her age, should exceed her in the observ- 
 ance thereof. And Fakr-un-nissa's zeal had raised the 
 price of self-complacency beyond reason. 
 
 'More than is needful!' echoed Maimana Begum with 
 a like tartness. 'Art not rash to say so, Mai Khadjiya? 
 Sure the virtue of some folk is situate as the tongue among 
 thirty-two teeth. It needs care to preserve itself.' 
 
 The white shrouded figures chuckled. They were not 
 really ill-humoured, or evilly disposed towards Glory-of- 
 Woman; it was simply that her excellent example had 
 made all their old bodies rather fretfuL ' And as for the 
 girl,' continued the acrid voice, 'she is a cat on the wall. 
 God only knows on which side she will jump down.' 
 
 Fakr-un-nissa's eyes flashed, and her ringers entangled 
 themselves in the gold thread. 'Then, for sure, it is our 
 part to make the right side more pleasant than the wrong ; 
 not to be always finding fault because she is young. Yea, 
 'tis so ; for look you, it seems ever to me that we are to 
 blame that we are in her place. Five long years is it 
 since she hath waited.' 
 
 Khadjiya Khanum's hands dropped from her work and 
 flew out in vehement crackings of every joint against ill- 
 luck. ' Tobah, Tobah 1 (For shame, for shame !) Mistress 
 Fakr-un-nissa. Die if thou wilt, to make room for the 
 hussy. As for me, I wait on the will of the Lord.' 
 
 A murmur of assent ran through the semicircle once 
 more. 
 
 ' Nay, nay ! I meant not so,' protested Fakr-un-nissa 
 hastily. ' Lo, death comes to all, and goeth not by age. 
 I meant but this, sure 'tis hard to put it to words that 
 the old should make room for the young, or make the 
 waiting bearable.'
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 79 
 
 ' Tchu I If the heart be set on a frog, what doth it care 
 for a fairy?' insisted the hoarder of other folk's wisdom. 
 ' Dost mean to hint that in this place the girl hath not had 
 virtue set constantly before her ay, and preached too? 
 It seems to me that we have it almost to satiety. Is it 
 not so, sisters?' 
 
 Once more the chuckle ran round the circle, and Glory- 
 of-Woman sat still more upright. 'Amongst thy other 
 proverbs, canst not recollect the one which says, " Between 
 the two priests the fowl killed for dinner became unlawful 
 to eat?"' Then the temper died from her face and she 
 went on in a softer-tone : 'I find no harm in the girl, and 
 what wrong hath she done this day more than another?' 
 
 ' No more, for sure,' put in Mumtaza Mahul, ' since she 
 is late at work every day ; that is no new thing, is it, sisters ?' 
 
 'Yet she finishes her task as quick as any, as I, any- 
 how,' persisted Yasmina's advocate, who having come to 
 the gold thread late in life found it apt to knot. 
 
 ' Wah-illah I What a fuss about a wilful girl,' put in a 
 new voice. 'She is no worse than others, and needs 
 restraint no more. She hath grown saucy since we gave 
 her money instead of broken victuals. Put her back to 
 the old footing, say I, when she had nought of her own.' 
 
 Khadjiya Khanum's veiled head nodded sagely. ' Thou 
 hast it, Hameda-banu. Lo, I, for one, know not why the 
 girl was ever given such freedom, save indeed that it tallies 
 with Fakr-un-nissa's indecent hastening of Providence. 
 I am for the old plan.' 
 
 'And I,' 'And I,' 'And I,' assented a chorus of set 
 certain voices. 
 
 Glory-of-Woman's fingers flew faster. 'Then will ye 
 drive the girl from us altogether. I know it, I feel it
 
 So GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 Yea, I, Fakr-un-nissa, singer of the Koran till my tone 
 failed me, remember it ; those days when some other 
 song seemed better and one must needs sing it ! Think, 
 sisters, remember ! The eyes of the body are two ; the 
 eye of the soul is one.' The work had dropped from her 
 hands, which were stretched out in eager entreaty. ' 'Tis 
 but patience for a year or two. Then, since there is no 
 harm in her, she will settle down as, as I, as I did. 
 'Tis but the youth in her veins, and God knows that is 
 soon past for a woman; yet one's glory remains.' Her 
 voice regaining some of its past strength, recollecting all 
 its old skill, under the stimulus of both memory and hope, 
 filled the little courtyard, and availed nothing. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, struck dumb, as sensitive 
 natures are, by the stress of passion around her, she was 
 watching with stupid inaction Yasmin's final vengeance on 
 that decorous row of curly shoes behind the screening 
 wall. To right and left, to this corner and that, they sped 
 before the reckless young feet, while the reckless young 
 voice rose in mockery : ' Lo, I wait no longer for old 
 women's shoes. I will have new ones of my own. Khujju, 
 and Mujju, and the rest of ye can sort them for yourselves, 
 or go down to the grave one foot at a time, as seemeth to 
 ye best. I care not ; I wait no longer.' 
 
 One pair flew full in Maimana Begum's face, and then 
 came a pause before the last pair, an odd sound between 
 a laugh and a sob, a sudden sweep of the net veil over the 
 shoulder, and a half-defiant nod to the old white figures. 
 'These shall stay, because they were my mother's, and 
 because ' 
 
 The next moment she was gone, leaving the twelve old 
 women sitting in the sunshine, breathless, silenced by her
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 81 
 
 youth, her unreason, her fire. Even Fakr-un-nissa had no 
 word of defence. But after a time, when Juntu, full of 
 smiles and winks, came from the steps to aid the cackle 
 which arose as the silencing effect of the shock wore away, 
 Glory-of-Woman began to feel the old pain at her heart 
 once more. 'Because they were my mother's, and be- 
 cause ' She could fill up the pause in two ways : 
 
 'Because they are yours, and you have been kinder than 
 the others'; 'Because they should by rights be mine.' 
 Both answers were disturbing. She leaned back against 
 the wall, pressing her thin hands to the thin breast 
 which had known so little of a woman's life, save only 
 that craving for another song. 
 
 'Towards the bazaar, sayest thou?' came Khadjiya's 
 wrathfully-satisfied voice. ' To the bazaar, and in Mohur- 
 rum-tide, too ! That means the worst, and we were none 
 too soon in getting rid of her, Heaven be praised ! ' 
 
 'The cousin lives close to the Chowk,' put in Fakr- 
 un-nissa faintly. ' Mayhap the girl goes there.' 
 
 Juntu laughed. ' The cousin is a bad one ; no better.' 
 
 Whereat Maimana Begum remarked sagely that whether 
 the knife fell on the melon or the melon on the knife was 
 all one; the melon suffered. Yasmin's reputation was 
 hopelessly hurt by that going bazaar-wards. 
 
 ' For a Syyedani perchance,' retorted Juntu, with some 
 acerbity. 'Yet this I say: there is no harm in the girl, 
 though she be younger than some folk who need dhoolis 
 to their virtue.' She hated the proverb-monger, who never 
 from year's end to year's end gave her a cowrie, or so much 
 even as a word of thanks. And then, being Mohurrum- 
 tide, when in all pious houses the Assemblage of Mourning 
 must be held, the work was folded away in the old carved 
 
 F
 
 82 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 coffer, the desecrated shoes sorted into pairs, and one by 
 one the old ladies were smuggled into the curtained 
 dhooli and trotted away to their homes, with buxom 
 Juntu chattering and laughing alongside. 
 
 'Dost recite the Afursidh 1 at the Nawab's this year, 
 Fakr-un-nissa ? ' asked Humeda-banu, wrapping herself 
 carefully in a thick white veil. 
 
 Glory-of- Woman shook her head. 'They have a new 
 one. Last Mohurrum I grew hoarse. Perhaps 'twas the 
 fever ; it had held me for days.' 
 
 'Fever!' echoed the other. 'Say rather the fasting. 
 Thou hast a dead look in the face even now, and as for 
 me, God knows whether I feel hungry or sick. Thou 
 shouldst remember that thou art growing old.' 
 
 'I do remember it,' said Fakr-un-nissa, half to herself. 
 
 In truth she did. As she sat awaiting her turn for the 
 curtained dhooli, she felt very cold, very helpless. Yasmin, 
 whom she had loved, had broken loose from all tradition 
 and gone bazaar-wards. The very idea was terrifying. 
 The brain behind that high narrow forehead of Fakr-un- 
 nissa's could barely grasp the situation. For fifty years it 
 had circled round the one central duty of pious seclusion, 
 and Yasmin's choice seemed almost incredible. For there 
 was no harm in the girl ; she had always been responsive 
 to kind words. If she, Fakr-un-nissa, could only have had 
 speech with her alone ! The thought made her restless, 
 and sent her to the door to peep, closely veiled, round the 
 screen and watch the dhooli containing Humeda-banu dis- 
 appear from the steps. Yet she had done her best, giving 
 the girl in secret what she could spare of the pittance; 
 and this year there would be no recitation-fees to eke out 
 1 The dirge in honour of the martyred Hussan and Hussain.
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 83 
 
 the remainder. Perhaps the others were right, and this 
 generosity of hers had fostered the girl's independence. 
 Khadjiya and Maimdna would say so, for sure, if they 
 knew. Then was she to blame? she who loved the girl, 
 who had taken the mother's shoes. The mere possibility 
 was a terror to the conscience where the womanhood that 
 was in her had found its only chance of blossoming. It is 
 the same East and West. Glory-of-Woman, as she stood, 
 tall and thin, leaning against the dull brick screen, had as 
 much claim to saintship as any in the canonised calendar ; 
 and wherefore not ? Had not she spent nearly fifty years 
 in learning the lives of the saints by heart, and chanting 
 the dirge of martyred virtue ? It came back to her dimly 
 as she stood there. The sombre dresses of the mourning 
 assemblage, the glittering Im&m-b&rah l dressed with such 
 care by reverent hands ; and then her own voice above the 
 answering chorus of moaning and sobbing. She had power 
 then, she was helpless now ; helpless and old, yet not old 
 enough apparently to die ; though when all was said and 
 done, it was not her turn, but Khadjiya Khanum's. Yet 
 she had taken the mother's shoes, and had sat there silent 
 when perhaps a word from her might have saved that 
 awful journey to the bazaar. Then the thought came to 
 her that the saints were never helpless, not even the 
 blessed Fatima herself. Glory-of-Woman had fasted and 
 prayed for long days and nights ; she felt miserably ill in 
 soul and body, in the very mood therefore to slip her feet 
 into the pair of shoes Yasmin's recklessness had spared, 
 and, almost as recklessly, pass without a pause to the door- 
 
 1 A model of the martyrs' shrine ; a permanent erection, whereas 
 the t&zzias used for the procession are afterwards burned. There is a 
 celebrated Imam-barah at Lucknow, imported from England.
 
 84 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 step. The next instant she was back again in shelter, 
 breathless, palpitating. Yet might it not be the voice of 
 God ? And no one would know ; she might be back ere 
 Juntu returned ; and even if she were not, the gadabout had 
 a kind heart. Besides, another rupee from the pittance 
 would silence her in any case. 
 
 East and West nothing is impossible to such religious 
 exaltation as changed the slow current in Fakr-un-nissa's 
 veins to a stream of fire scorching and shrivelling every 
 thought save the one, that she stood in the mother's 
 shoes, yet had said no word. She wrapped her thick 
 shroud of a veil tighter round her and stepped deliberately 
 into the alley. The glory of woman, its motherhood, was 
 hers indeed in that instant, though she did not realise it, 
 though the thin breast heaving with her quickened breath 
 had never felt the lip-clasp of a child. 
 
 It was a long, low room, opening by arches to a wooden 
 balcony without, into which, half fainting with pure physical 
 fatigue, she stumbled, after Heaven knows what trivial yet 
 to her sheer ignorance almost awful difficulties by the 
 way. Yet she was not afraid; indeed, as she had passed 
 through the crowded streets it had been wonder which had 
 come to her. That this should be a time of fasting and 
 mourning, and yet none seem to care ! Had the world no 
 time to bewail dead virtue ? Had it forgotten the Faith ? 
 And this, too, was no mourning assemblage, though in 
 some of the faces of the lounging men she recognised the 
 features of her own race, the race of the Prophet himself. 
 Had they forgotten also? She shrank back an instant, 
 until beside a flaunting woman whose profession was writ 
 large enough for even fifty years of pious seclusion to de 
 cipher it instinctively she saw a slender figure crouching
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 85 
 
 half-sullen, half-defiant. The face was still veiled, but she 
 knew it. 
 
 ' Yasmin ! ' she cried breathlessly. ' Come back ! Come 
 back to us ! ' 
 
 The girl sprang to her feet with a fierce cry, and was 
 beside the tall white form in an instant, screening it with 
 swift arms that strove to force it back. ' Go ! I say go ! 
 Why art thou here? Thou shouldst not have come hither ! 
 Go ! See, I will come also if thou wilt not go without me.' 
 
 ' Not so fast, my pigeon,' tittered the flaunting woman, 
 answering the half-surprised looks of the men with nods and 
 winks. ' Thou art in my charge now, since thou hast left 
 the saints. Who is this woman ? Let her speak her claim.' 
 
 Yasmin's hand flew to Fakr-un-nissa's mouth. 'Not a 
 word, Amma? not a word. See, I will go; quick, let 
 us go.' 
 
 The surprise had lessened, and a man's voice rose with 
 a laugh. 'What, let thee go for nothing, with an un- 
 known ? Nay, Mistress Chambele, that were unwise. She 
 is thy cousin ; the claims of kinship must be considered.' 
 
 'The claims of numbers, too,' put in another. 'Let the 
 veiled one unveil, since she has come among us.' 
 
 'Nay, brothers,' interrupted a third hastily in a lower 
 voice, ' mayhap she is one of the saintly women, and ' 
 
 A laugh checked the speech. 'So much the better. 
 What doth a saint here?' 
 
 Some one had barred the doorway with thrust-out arm, 
 and half a dozen others with jeering faces lounged against 
 the wall crying languidly, ' Unveil, unveil.' But Yismin's 
 arms clasped close. ' I will go/ she panted. ' I will go 
 with her. She, she is my mother.' 
 
 1 A pet name for mother or nurse.
 
 86 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 Chambele's titter rang high and shrill. ' Wah I That 
 is a tale ! See you, friends ; her mother hath been dead 
 five years. Enough of this, little fool ! Thou hast made 
 thy choice already ; there is no place for thee yonder with 
 the saints.' 
 
 ' She hath her mother's,' cried Fakr-un-nissa, freeing her- 
 self from Yasmin's hold with new strength, born of the 
 girl's words. 'Lo, she speaks truth, my sister! I stand 
 in her mother's shoes. Let her go in peace, and she shall 
 have them surely.' 
 
 Something in the urbane polish of her speech awoke 
 memory in the men, and one, older than the rest, said with 
 a frown, 'Yea, 'tis enough, Chambele; let the woman go, 
 and the child also if she wish it. She will come back 
 another day if she be of this sort ; if not, there are others.' 
 
 ' But not without a ransom,' interrupted one with an 
 evil face and evil eyes which had seen enough of Yasmin's 
 figure beneath the veil to think her presence gave unwonted 
 piquancy to the business. 
 
 ' Yea, a ransom, a ransom for coming here, and spoiling 
 pleasure ! Let the saint pay the price of the sinner. 
 Unveil ! unveil ! ' cried half a dozen jeering voices. 
 
 The sunshine without streamed through the arches in 
 broad bands upon the floor, but Fakr-un-nissa's tall, muffled 
 figure stood in shadow by the door. A fighting quail was 
 calling boastfully from a shrouded cage over the way ; the 
 cries of the noisy bazaar floated up to the balcony, a har- 
 monious background to Chamber's noisier laugh. Then, 
 suddenly, came a step forward into the sunlight, and the 
 heavy white veil fell in billowy curves like a cloud about 
 Fakr-un-nissa's feet. For the first time in her life Glory- 
 of-Woman stood unsheltered from the gaze of men's eyes.
 
 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 87 
 
 And those eyes saw something worth seeing, despite her 
 fifty and odd years : a woman beautiful in her age, grace- 
 ful as ever in the sweeping white draperies of the graceful 
 Delhi dress ; but a woman forgetful utterly of the woman- 
 hood, even of the motherhood in her, as with one swift 
 outspreading of the arms she broke into the opening lines 
 of the Afurstd/i, that dirge of martyred virtue which is as 
 closely interwoven with all that is best in the life of a 
 Mussulman as ' Hark, the herald angels sing ! ' is with the 
 Christian's tender memories of home a dirge sacred to 
 the day and the hour a dirge forgotten by this new world. 
 Fakr-un-nissa remembered nothing else. Many and many 
 a time listless, indifferent hearts had responded to the 
 fervour of her declamation ; women's hearts, it is true, and 
 that was a woman's derisive laugh ! But above it rose a 
 man's swift curse commanding silence for all save that 
 skilful voice ; and not silence only for that was a sigh ! 
 So the cadences rang truer and stronger out into the sun- 
 light, making the passers-by pause to listen. 
 
 ' An Assemblage at Chambele's house ! ' sneered some 
 one. ' That is a sinner's ransom indeed.' 
 
 But Glory-of- Woman heard nothing save those responsive 
 sighs, saw nothing but the orthodox beatings of the breast 
 with which one or two of the elder men gave in to custom. 
 
 The last ameen left her still blind, still deaf. Then 
 came a laugh. 'With half her years I'd take the saint 
 before the sinner,' said the man with the evil face. 
 
 Glory-of- Woman stood for a second as if turned to stone. 
 Then she threw up her hands with a cry, and sank in a 
 huddled heap upon the white curves of her fallen veil. 
 
 ' God smite your soul to eternal damnation ! ' cried a 
 man's voice.
 
 88 GLORY-OF-WOMAN 
 
 But Glory-of- Woman was to hear no man's voice again. 
 She had kept her promise, and the last pair of curly shoes 
 behind the screen was vacant. In due time Noor-banu 
 slipped into them, for the eleven old ladies and Juntu 
 made peace with her for the sake of Fakr-un-nissa. 
 
 ' Lo ! the ways of Providence are not our ways,' said 
 Khadjiya Khanum piously over her horn spectacles. ' And 
 she was ever in a hurry. For my part I wait on the will of 
 the Lord.' 
 
 Maimana Begum cackled under her breath. ' Hair-oil 
 is wasted on a bald head,' she said in a whisper to Humeda- 
 banu. ' Her time is near, hurry or no hurry. Who comes, 
 must go.'
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 HE sat, cuddled up in a cream-coloured cotton blanket, 
 edged with crimson, shoo-ing away the brown rats from the 
 curved cobs of Indian corn. The soft mists of a northern 
 November hung over the landscape in varying density : 
 heavy over the dank sugar-cane patch by the well, lighter 
 on the green fodder crop, dewy among the moisture-loving 
 leaves of the sprouting vetches, and here, in the field of 
 ripening maize, scarcely visible between the sparse stems. 
 He was an old man with a thin white beard tucked away 
 behind his ears, and a kindly look on his high-featured face. 
 Every now and then he took up a little clod of earth from 
 the dry, crumbling ridge of soil which divided the field he 
 was watching from the surrounding ones, and threw it 
 carefully among the maize, saying in a gentle, grumbling 
 voice, ' Ari, brothers ! Does no shame come to you ? ' 
 
 It had no perceptible effect on the rats, who, owing to 
 the extreme sparsity of the crop, could be seen every here 
 and there deliberately climbing up a swaying stem to seat 
 themselves on a cob and begin breakfast systematically. 
 In the calm, windless silence you could almost hear the 
 rustle and rasp of their sharp white teeth. But Nanuk 
 Singh as might have been predicted from his seventy 
 and odd years of life in the fields was somewhat hard of 
 hearing, somewhat near of vision also. For when so 
 
 89
 
 90 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 many years have been spent watching the present furrow 
 cling to the curves of the past one, in sure and certain 
 hope of similar furrows in the future, or in listening to the 
 endless lamentations of a water-wheel ceasing not by day 
 or night to proclaim an eternity of toil and harvest, both 
 eyes and ears are apt to grow dull towards new sights and 
 sounds. Nanuk's had, at any rate, even though the old 
 familiar ones no longer occupied them, fate having de- 
 creed that in his old age the peasant farmer should have 
 neither furrows nor water-wheel of his own. How this had 
 come about needs a whole statute-book of Western laws to 
 understand. Nanuk himself never attempted the task. To 
 him it was, briefly, the will of God. His district officer, 
 however, when the case fell under his notice by reason of 
 the transfer of the land, thought differently; and having a 
 few minutes' leisure from office drudgery to spare for really 
 important work, made yet one more representation regard- 
 ing the scandalous rates of interest, the cruelty of time- 
 foreclosures, and the general injustice of applying the 
 maxim ' caveat emptor ' to transactions in which one party 
 is practically a child and the other a Jew. A futile repre- 
 sentation, of course, since the Government, so experts 
 affirm, is not strong enough to attack the Frankenstein 
 monster of Law which it has created. 
 
 In a measure, nevertheless, old Nanuk was right in at- 
 tributing his ruin to fate, since it had followed naturally 
 from the death of his three sons : one, the eldest, dying 
 of malarial fever in the prime of life, leaving, alas ! a young 
 family of girls ; another, the youngest, swept off by cholera 
 just as his hand began to close firmly round his dead 
 brother's plough-handle; the third, when on the eve of 
 getting his discharge from a frontier regiment in order to
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 91 
 
 take his brothers' places by his father's side, being struck 
 down ingloriously in one of the petty border raids of 
 which our Punjab peasant soldiers have always to bear 
 the brunt. 
 
 And this loss of able hands led inevitably to the loss of 
 ill-kept oxen ; while from the lack of well-cattle came that 
 gradual shrinkage of the irrigated area where some crop is 
 certain rain or no rain, which means a less gradual sinking 
 further and further into debt ; until, as had been the case 
 with Nanuk, the owner loses all right in the land save the 
 doubtful one of toil. Even this had passed from the old 
 man's slackening hold after his wife died, and the daughters- 
 in-law, with starvation staring them in the face, had drifted 
 away back to their own homes, leaving him to live as best 
 he could on the acre or so of unirrigated land lent to him 
 out of sheer charity. For public opinion still has some 
 power over the usurer in a village of strong men, and all 
 his fellows respected old Nanuk, who stood six feet two, 
 barefoot, and had tales to tell of the gentle art of singlestick 
 as applied to the equitable settling of accounts in the old 
 days, before Western laws had taken the job out of the 
 creditor's hands. 
 
 Strangely enough, however, Nanuk, as he sat coping 
 inadequately with the brown rats, felt less resentment 
 against the usurer who had robbed him, or the law which 
 permitted the robbery, than he did against the weather. 
 The former had made no pretence of favouring him ; the 
 latter, year after year, had tempted his farmer's soul to 
 lavish sowings by copious rain at seed-time, and thereinafter 
 withheld the moisture necessary for a bare return of measure 
 for measure. Briefly, he had gambled in grain, and he had 
 lost. Lost hopelessly in this last harvest of maize, since,
 
 92 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 when the sound cobs should be separated from those which 
 the wanton teeth had spoilt, they would not yield the 
 amount of Government revenue which the old maim had 
 to pay; certainly would not do so if the cobs became 
 scarcer day by day and the rats more throng. In fact, 
 the necessity for action ere matters grew worse appeared 
 to strike Nanuk, making him, after a time, draw out a 
 small sickle and begin to harvest the remaining stalks one 
 by one. 
 
 ' Bullah! neighbour Nanuk,' cried the new man, who, 
 better equipped for the task with sons and cattle, was 
 driving the wheel and curving the furrows for the usurer, 
 ' I would, for thy sake, the task was harder. And as if the 
 crop were not poor enough, the dissolute rats must needs 
 play the wanton with the half of it. But, 'tis the same all 
 over the land, and between them and the revenue we poor 
 folk of the plough will have no share.' 
 
 Nzlnuk stood looking meditatively at a very fine cob out 
 of which a pair of sharp white teeth were taking a last 
 nibble, while a pair of wicked black eyes watched him 
 fearlessly. 
 
 ' They are God's creatures also, and have a right to live 
 on the soil as we others,' he said slowly. 
 
 'Then they should pay the revenue,' grumbled Dittu. 
 * Why should you, who have no crop whereon to pay ? At 
 ten/' he added sharply to one of the oxen he was driving 
 to their work, ' sleepest thou ? and the well silent ! Dost 
 want to bring me to Nanuk's plight ? ' 
 
 So, with a prod of the goad, he passed on, leaving old 
 Nanuk still looking at the brown rat on the corn-cob. 
 Why, indeed, should he have to pay for God's other 
 creatures? In the old days justice would have been meted
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 93 
 
 out to such as he. The crop would have been divided 
 into heaps, so many for the owner of the soil, so many for 
 the tiller, so many for the State. Then, if Purameshwar' 1 
 sent rats instead of rain, the heaps were smaller. That was 
 all. And if the equity of this had been patent to those 
 older rulers, who had scarcely given a thought in other 
 ways to the good of their subjects, why should it not be 
 patent to those new ones who God keep them ! gave 
 justice without respect of persons, so far as in them lay? 
 There must be a mistake somewhere ; the facts could not 
 have been properly placed before the Lat-sahib that vice- 
 regent of God upon earth. This conviction came home 
 slowly to the old man as he finished his harvesting ; slowly 
 but surely, so that when he had spread the cobs out to dry 
 on his cotton blanket he walked over to the well, and, 
 between the whiffs of the general pipe, hinted that he 
 thought of laying the matter before the authorities. 'I 
 will take the produce of my field,' he said, ' in my hand 
 it will not be more than five seers when the good is sifted 
 from the bad and I will say to the Lai-sahib, "This is 
 because Purameshwar sent rats instead of rain. Take 
 your share, and ask no more." ' 
 
 Dittu, the new man, laughed scornfully. ' Better take a 
 rat also, since all parties to the case must be present by 
 the law.' 
 
 He intended it as a joke, but Nanuk took it quite 
 seriously. ' That is true,' he assented ; ' I will take a rat 
 also ; then there can be no mistake.' 
 
 That evening, when he sat with his cronies on the mud 
 dais beneath the peepul tree, where he was welcome to a 
 pull out of anybody's pipe, he spoke again of his intention. 
 1 The Great God.
 
 94 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 The younger folk laughed, but the seniors thought that it 
 could at least do no harm. Nanuk's case was a hard one ; 
 it was quite clear he could not pay the revenue, and it was 
 better to go to the fountain-head in such matters, since 
 underlings could do nothing but take fees. So, while the 
 stars came out in the evening sky, they sat and told tales 
 of Nausherwan, and many another worthy whose memory 
 lingers in native minds by reason of perfectly irrational 
 acts of despotic clemency, such as even Socialists do not 
 dream of nowadays. The corn-cobs then being harvested, 
 dried, and shelled, he set to work with the utmost 
 solemnity on rat-traps ; but here at once he realised his 
 mistake. By harvesting his own crop he had driven the 
 little raiders further afield ; and though he could easily 
 have caught one in his neighbour's patch, a desire to deal 
 perfectly fairly with those who, in his experience, dealt 
 perfectly fairly with facts, made him stipulate for a rat out 
 of his own. 
 
 This necessitated the baiting of his property with some 
 of the corn in order to attract the wanton creatures again; 
 and even then, though he sat for hours holding the cord 
 by which an earthen dish was to be made to fall upon the 
 unsuspecting intruder, he was unsuccessful. 
 
 ' Trra ! not catch rats ! ' cried a most venerable old 
 pantaloon to whom he applied for advice, remembering 
 him in his boyhood as one almost god-like in his supreme 
 knowledge of such things. ' Wait awhile ; 'tis a trick a 
 mere trick, but when you once know it you cannot forget it.' 
 All that day the old men sat together in the sunshine, pro- 
 foundly busy, and towards evening they went forth together 
 to the field, chattering and laughing like a couple of 
 schoolboys. It was long after dusk ere they returned, full
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 95 
 
 of mutual recrimination. The one had coughed too much, 
 the other had wheezed perpetually ; there was no catching 
 of rats possible under such circumstances. Then the old 
 pantaloon went a-hunting by himself, full of confidence, 
 only to return dejected ; then Nanuk, full of determination, 
 sat up all one moonlight night in the field where now 
 that he had no crop to benefit by it the night-dew 
 gathered heavily on every leaf and blade on Nanuk, too, 
 as he sat crouched up in his cotton blanket, thinking of 
 what he should say to the Lat-sahib when the rat was 
 caught, which it was not. Finally, with angry misgivings 
 as to the capabilities of the present generation of boys, the 
 old pantaloon suggested the offering of one whole anna for 
 the first rat captured in Nanuk's maize-field. Before the 
 day was over a score or two of the village lads, long-limbed, 
 bright-eyed, were vociferously maintaining the prior claims 
 of as many brown rats, safely confined in little earthen 
 pipkins with a rag tied round the top. They stood in a 
 row, like an offering of sweets to some deity, round Nanuk's 
 bed, for as was not to be wondered at after his night- 
 watchhe was down with an attack of the chills. That 
 was nothing new. He had had them every autumn since 
 he was born ; but he was not accustomed to be surrounded 
 on such occasions by brown rats appealing to him for 
 justice. It ended in his, with feverish hands, giving one 
 anna to each of the boys, and reserving his selection until 
 he was in a more judicial frame of mind. Still, it would 
 not do to starve God's creatures, so every morning while 
 the fever lingered for it had got a grip on him somehow 
 he went round the pipkins and fed the rats with some of 
 the maize. And every morning, rather to his relief, there 
 were fewer of them to feed, since they nibbled their way
 
 96 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 out once they discovered that the top of their prison was 
 but cloth. So as he lay, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, 
 the idea came to him, foolishly enough, that this was a 
 process of divine selection, and that if he only waited the 
 day when but one rat should remain, his mission would 
 bear the seal of success. An idea like this only needs pre- 
 sentation to a mind, or lack of mind, like old Nanuk's. 
 So what with the harvesting and the rat-catching, and the 
 fever and the omen-awaiting, it was close on the new year 
 when, with a brown rat, now quite tame, tied up in a 
 pipkin, some five seers of good grain tied up in the corner 
 of his cotton blanket, and Heaven knows what a curious 
 conglomeration of thought bound up in his still feverish 
 brain, the old man set out from his village to find the Lat- 
 sahib. Such things are still done in India, such figures are 
 still to be seen, making some civilised people stand out of 
 the road bare-headed, as they do to a man on his way to 
 the grave a man who has lived his life, whose day is past. 
 Owing also to the fever and the paying for rats, etc., old 
 Nanuk's pockets was ill-provided for the journey, but that 
 mattered little in a country where a pilgrimage on foot is 
 in itself presumptive evidence of saintship. Besides, the 
 brown rat to which Nanuk had attached a string lest one 
 of the parties to the suit might escape him on the road 
 was a perpetual joy to the village children, who scarcely 
 knew if it were greater fun to peep at it in its pipkin, or see 
 it peeping out of the old man's cotton blanket, when in the 
 evenings it nibbled away at its share of Nanuk's dinner. 
 They used to ask endless questions as to why he carried it 
 about, and what he was going to do with it, until, half in 
 jest, half in earnest, he told them he was the mudd-ee 
 (plaintiff) and the rat the mudee-ala (defendant) in a case
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 97 
 
 they were going to lay before the Lat-sahib ; an explana- 
 tion perfectly intelligible to even the babes and sucklings, 
 who in a Punjabi village nowadays lisp in numbers of 
 petitions and pleaders. 
 
 So the muda-ee and mudee-frla tramped along together 
 amicably, sometimes by curving wheel-tracks among the 
 furrows ancient rights-of-way over the wide fields, as 
 transient yet immutable as the furrows themselves; and 
 there, with the farmer's eye-heritage of generations, he 
 noted each change of tint in the growing wheat, from the 
 faintest yellowing to the solid dark green with its promise 
 of a full ear to come. Sometimes by broad lanes, telling 
 yet once more the strange old Indian tale of transience and 
 permanence, of death and renewed birth, in the deep grass- 
 set ruts through which the traffic of centuries had passed 
 rarely, yet inevitably. And here with the same knowledge- 
 able eye he would mark the homing herds of village cattle, 
 and infer from their condition what the unseen harvest had 
 been which gave them their fodder. Finally, out upon the 
 hard, white high-road, so different from the others in its 
 self-sufficient straightness, its squared heaps of nodular 
 limestone ready for repairs, its elaborate arrangements for 
 growing trees where they never grew before, and where 
 even Western orders will not make them grow. And here 
 Nanuk's eyes still found something familiar in the great 
 wains creaking along in files to add their quota of corn 
 sacks to the mountain of wheat cumbering the railway 
 platforms all along the line. Yet even this was in its 
 essence new, provoking the wonder in his slow brain how 
 it could be that the increased demand for wheat and its 
 enhanced price should have gone hand-in-hand with the 
 financial ruin of the grower. 
 
 G
 
 98 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 To say sooth, however, such problems as these flitted 
 but vaguely through the old man's thought, and even his 
 own spoliation was half forgotten in the one great object of 
 that long journey which, despite his cheerful patience, had 
 sapped his strength sadly. To find the Lai-sahib, to make 
 his salaam, and bid the mudee-ala-jee do so likewise, to lay 
 the produce of the field at the sahib's feet, and say that Pur- 
 meshwar had sent rats instead of rain that in itself was 
 sufficient for the old man as he trudged along doggedly, his 
 eyes becoming more and more dazed by unfamiliar sights 
 as he neared the big city. 
 
 ' Bullah ! ' said the woman of whom he begged a night's 
 lodging. ' If we were to house and feed the wanderers on 
 this road, we should have to starve ourselves. And thou 
 art a Sikh. Go to thine own people. Tis each for each 
 in this world.' That was a new world to Nanuk. 
 
 ' Doth thy rat do tricks ? ' asked the children critically. 
 ' What, none ? Trra ! we can see rats of that mettle any 
 day in the drains, and there was a man here yesterday 
 whose rat cooked bread and drew water. Ay ! and his 
 goat played the drum. That was a show worth seeing.' 
 
 So Nanuk trudged on. 
 
 'See the Lai-sahib] sneered the yellow-legged police 
 constable when, after much wandering through bewildering 
 crowds, the old Sikh found himself at a meeting of roads, 
 each one of which was barred by a baton. ' Which Lat- 
 sahib the big one or the little ? ' 
 
 ' The big one,' replied Nanuk stoutly. There was no 
 good in underlings ; that he knew. 
 
 Police Constable number Seventy-five called over to his 
 crony number Ninety-six on the next road. 
 
 ' Art, brother ! Here is another durbari. Canst let him
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 99 
 
 in on thy beat ? I have no room on mine.' And then 
 they both laughed, whereat old Nanuk, taking courage, 
 moved on a step, only to be caught and dragged back, 
 hustled, and abused. What ! was the Great Durbar for 
 the like of him the Great Durbar on which lakhs and 
 crores had been spent the Great Durbar all India had 
 been thinking of for months? Wahl Whence had he 
 coma if he had not heard of the Great Durbar, and what 
 had he thought was the meaning of the Venetian masts and 
 triumphal arches, the flags and the watered roads ? Did he 
 think such things were always? Aril if it came to such 
 ignorance as that, mayhap he would not know what this 
 was coming along the road. 
 
 It was a disciplined tramp of feet, an even glitter of 
 bayonets, a straight line of brown faces, a swing and a 
 sweep, as a company of the Guides came past in their 
 kakhi and crimson uniform. Old Nanuk looked at it 
 wistfully. 
 
 ' Nay, brother,' he said, ' I know that. 'Twas my son's 
 regiment, God rest him ! ' 
 
 'Thou shouldst sit down, old man,' said a bystander 
 kindly. ' Of a truth thou canst go no further till the show 
 is over. Hark ! there are the guns again. 'Twill be 
 Bairanpore likely, since Hurriana has gone past. Wah I 
 it is a show a rare show ! ' 
 
 So down the watered road, planted out in miserable 
 attempts at decoration with barbers' poles unworthy of a 
 slum in the East End, came a bevy of Australian horses, 
 wedged at a trot between huge kettledrums, which were 
 being whacked barbarically by men who rose in their 
 stirrups with the conscientious precision of a newly 
 imported competition-o>0//a/$. Then more Australian horses
 
 ioo AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 again in an orfeverie barouche lined with silver, where, 
 despite the glow of colour, the blinding flash of diamonds 
 in an Indian sun, despite even the dull wheat-green glitter 
 of the huge emerald tiara about the turban, the eye forgot 
 these things to fix itself upon the face which owned them 
 all; a face haggard, sodden, superlatively handsome even 
 in its soddenness ; indifferent, but with an odd conscious- 
 ness of the English boy who dressed as for a flower show 
 sat silently beside his charge. Behind them with a 
 clatter and flutter of pennons came a great trail of wild 
 horsemen, showing, as they swept past, dark, lowering faces 
 among the sharp spear-points. 
 
 And the guns beat on their appointed tale, till, with the 
 last, a certain satisfaction came to that sodden face, since 
 there were none short in the salute as yet. The measure 
 of his misdoings was not full as yet. 1 
 
 The crowd ebbed and flowed irregularly to border the 
 straight white roads, where at intervals the great tributary 
 chiefs went backwards and forwards to pay their State 
 visits, but Nanuk and his rat the plaintiff and the defen- 
 dant waited persistently for their turn to pass on. It 
 was long in coming ; for even when the last flash and dash 
 of barbaric splendour had disappeared, the roar of cannon 
 began louder, nearer, regular to a second in its even 
 beat. 
 
 'That is the Za/-salute,' said one man to another in 
 the crowd. ' Let us wait and see the Lat, brother, ere 
 we go.' 
 
 Nanuk overheard the words, and looked along the road 
 anxiously, then stood feeling more puzzled than ever ; for 
 
 1 A reduction in the number of guns is the first punishment for bad 
 administration.
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 101 
 
 there was nothing to see here but a plain closed carriage 
 with a thin red and gold trail of the body-guard behind it 
 and before. The sun was near to its setting, and sent a 
 red, angry flare upon a bank of clouds which had risen in 
 the east, and the dust of many feet swept past in whirls 
 before a rising wind. 
 
 'It will rain ere nightfall,' declared the crowd con- 
 tentedly, as it melted away citywards. 'And the crops 
 will be good, praise to God.' 
 
 Once more Nanuk overheard, and this time a glad recog- 
 nition seemed to rouse him from a dream. Yes ! the 
 crops would be good. Down by the well, on the land he 
 and his had ploughed for so many years, the wheat would 
 be green green as those emeralds above that sodden 
 face. 
 
 ' The Lat has gone out,' joked Constable Seventy-five as 
 he went off duty; 'but there are plenty of other things 
 worth seeing to such an ignoramus as thou.' 
 
 True ; only by this time Nanuk was almost past seeing 
 aught save that all things were unfamiliar in those miles 
 and miles of regiments and rajahs, electric lights and 
 newly macadamised roads, tents and make-believe gardens, 
 all pivoted, as it were, round the Royal Standard of Eng- 
 land, which was planted out in the centre of the Viceroy's 
 camp. As he wandered aimlessly about the vast canvas 
 city, hustled here, sent back there, the galloping orderlies, 
 the shuffling elephants, the carriages full of English ladies, 
 the subalterns cracking their tandem whips, and the native 
 outriders had but one word for him. 
 
 ' Hut ! Htit / ' (' Stand back ! stand back ! *) 
 
 A heavy drop of rain came as a welcome excuse to his 
 dogged perseverance for sheltering awhile under a thorn
 
 102 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 bush. He was more tired than hungry, though he had not 
 tasted food that day ; and it needed a sharp nip from the 
 defendant's teeth, as it sought for something eatable in the 
 folds of his blanket, to remind him that others of God's 
 creatures had a better appetite than he. But what was he 
 to give ? There was the five seers of grain still, of course ; 
 but who was to apportion the shares ? Who was to say, 
 'This much for the plaintiff, this much for the defendant, 
 this much for the State ' ? The familiar idea seemed to 
 give him support in the bewildering inrush of new impres- 
 sions, and he held to it as a drowning man in a waste 
 of unknown waters clutches at a straw. 
 
 Nevertheless, the parties to the suit must not be allowed 
 to starve meanwhile, and if they took equal shares surely 
 that would be just. 
 
 The rain now fell in torrents, and the kikar bush scarcely 
 gave him any shelter as, with a faint smile, he sat watching 
 the brown rat at work upon the corn, and counting the 
 number of grains the wanton teeth appropriated as their 
 portion. For so much, and no more, would be his also. 
 It was not a sumptuous repast, but uncooked maize 
 requires mastication, and that took up time. So that it 
 was dark ere he stood up, soaked through to the skin, and 
 looked perplexedly at the long lines of twinkling lights 
 which had sprung up around him. And hark ! what was 
 that ? It was the dinner bugle at a mess close by, followed, 
 as by an echo, by another and another and another quite 
 a chorus of cheerful invitations to dinner. But Nanuk 
 knew nothing of such feasts as were spread there in the 
 wilderness. He had lived all his life on wheat and lentils, 
 though, being a Sikh, he would eat wild boar or deer if it 
 could be got, or take a tot of country spirits on occasion
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 103 
 
 to make life seem less dreary. He stood listening, shiver- 
 ing a little with the cold, and then went on his way, since 
 the Lat-sahib must be found, the case decided, before this 
 numbing forgetfulness crept over everything. 
 
 Sometimes he inquired of those he met. More often he 
 did not, but wandered on aimlessly through the maze of 
 light, driven and hustled as he had been by day. And as 
 he wandered the bands of the various camps were playing, 
 say, the march in ' Tannhauser,' or ' Linger longer, Loo.' 
 But sooner or later they all paused to break suddenly into 
 a stave or two of another tune, as the colonel gave ' The 
 Queen ' to his officers. 
 
 Of all this, again, Nanuk knew nothing. Even at the 
 best of times, he had been ignorant as a babe unborn of 
 anything beyond his fields, and now he remembered 
 nothing save that he and the brown rat were suitors in a 
 case against Purameshwar and the State. 
 
 So the night passed. It was well on into the chilliest 
 time before the dawn, when the slumber which comes to 
 all the world for that last dead hour of darkness having 
 rid him of all barriers, he found himself beneath what had 
 been the goal of his hopes ever since he had first seen its 
 strange white rays piercing the night the great ball of 
 electric light which crowned the flagstaff whereon the 
 Standard of England hung dank and heavy ; for the wind 
 had dropped, the rain had ceased, and a thick white mist 
 clung close even to the round bole of the mast, which was 
 set in the centre of a stand of chrysantheums. The colours 
 of the blossoms were faintly visible in the downward 
 gleam of the light spreading in a small circle through 
 the mist. 
 
 So far good. This was the ' Standard of Sovereignty,' no
 
 104 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 doubt the ' Lamp of Safety ' the guide by day and night 
 to faithful subjects seeking justice before the king. This 
 Nanuk understood ; this he had heard of in those tales of 
 Nausherwan and his like, told beneath the village peefril 
 tree. 
 
 Here, then, he would stay he and the defendant till 
 the dawn brought a hearing. He sat down, his back to 
 the flowers, his head buried in his knees. And as he sat, 
 immovable, the mist gathered upon him as it had gathered 
 in the field. But he was not thinking now what he should 
 say to the Lat-sahib. He was past that. 
 
 He did not hear the jingle and clash of arms which, after 
 a time, came through the fog, or the voice which said 
 cheerfully 
 
 ' 'Appy Noo Year to you, mate ! ' 
 
 1 Same to you, Tommy, and many of 'em ; but it 's rather 
 you nor I, for it 's chillin' to the vitals.' 
 
 They were changing guards on this New Year's morning, 
 and Private Smith, as he took his first turn under the long 
 strip of canvas stretched as a sun-shelter between the two 
 sentry-boxes, acknowledged the truth of his comrade's 
 remark by beating his arms upon his breast like any 
 cabman. Yet he was hot enough in his head, for he had 
 been singing ' Auld Lang Syne ' and drinking rum for the 
 greater part of the night, and, though sufficiently sober to 
 pass muster on New Year's Eve, was drunk enough to 
 be intensely patriotic. So, as he walked up and down, 
 there was a little lilt in his step which attempted to keep 
 time to the stave of ' God Save our Gracious Queen ' which 
 he was whistling horribly out of tune. On the morrow 
 or, rather, to-day, since the dawn was at hand there was 
 to be the biggest review in which he had ever taken part :
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 105 
 
 six-and twenty thousand troops marching up to the Royal 
 Standard and saluting ! They had been practising it for 
 weeks, and the thrill of it, the pride and power of it, had 
 somehow got into Private Smith's head with the rum. It 
 made him take a turn beyond that strip of canvas, round 
 the flagstaff he was supposed to guard. 
 
 ' 'Alt ! 'oo goes there ? ' 
 
 The challenge rang loudly, rousing Nanuk from a dream 
 which was scarcely less unreal than the past twelve hours 
 of waking had been to his ignorance. He stumbled up 
 stiffly a head taller than the sentry and essayed a 
 salaam. 
 
 ' 'Ullo ! What the devil are you doin' here ? Hut, you 
 nigger ! Goramighty ! wot 's that ? ' 
 
 It was the defendant, which Nanuk had brought out to 
 salaam also, and which, alarmed at the sudden introduction, 
 began darting about wildly at the end of its string. Private 
 Smith fell back a step, and then pulled himself together 
 with a violent effort, uncertain if the rat were real ; but the 
 cold night air was against him. 
 
 ' Wash'er-mean ? Wash'er doin'-'ere ? Was'her-got ? ' 
 he asked conglomerately ; and Nanuk, understanding 
 nothing, went down on his knees the better to untie the 
 knot in the corner of his blanket. c Poggle,' 1 commented 
 Private Smith, recovering himself as he looked down at the 
 heap of maize, the defendant, and the old man talking 
 about Purameshwar. Then, being in a benevolent mood, 
 he wagged his head sympathetically. 'Pore old Johnny! 
 wot 's 'e want, with 'is rat and 'is popcorn ? Fine lookin' 
 old chap, though but we licked them Sickies, and, by 
 gum ! we '11 lick 'em again, if need be ! ' 
 1 Pagul mad.
 
 106 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 The thought made him begin to whistle once more as he 
 bent unsteadily to look at something which glittered faintly 
 as the old man laid it on the top of the pile of corn. 
 
 It was his son's only medal. 
 
 ' Hillo ! ' said Private Smith, bringing himself up with a 
 lurch, ' so that is it, eh, mate ? Gor-save-a-Queen ! Now 
 wot's up, sonny? 'Orse Guards been a-doing wot they 
 didn't ought to 'ave done? Well, that ain't no noos, is it, 
 comrade ? But we '11 drink the old Lady's 'elth all the same. 
 Lordy ! if you 've bin doin' extra dooty on the rag all night 
 you won't mind a lick o' the lap eh ? Lor' bless you ! 
 I don' want it. I 've had as mush as me and Lee-Metford 
 can carry 'ome without takin' a day-tour by orderly room 
 Woy ! you won't, won't yer? Come now, Johnny, don't be 
 a fool it 's rum, I tell yer, and you Sickies ain't afraid o' 
 rum. Wot ! you won't drink 'er 'elth, you mutineering 
 nigger ? Then I '11 make yer. Feel that now then, 
 "'Ere's a 'elth unto'w her Majesty."' 
 
 Perhaps it was the unmistakable prick of a bayonet in 
 his stomach, perhaps it was the equally unmistakable smell 
 of the liquor arousing a craving for comfort in the old man, 
 but he suddenly seized the flask which Private Smith had 
 dragged from his pocket, and, throwing his head back, 
 poured the contents down his throat, the action due to 
 his desire not to touch the bottle with his lips giving him 
 an almost ludicrous air of eagerness. 
 
 Private Smith burst into a roar of laughter. 
 
 ' Gor-save-the-Queen ! ' And as he spoke the first gun 
 of the hundred and one which are fired at daybreak on the 
 anniversary of her Most Gracious Majesty's assumption of 
 the title Kaiser-i-Hind boomed out sullenly through the 
 fog.
 
 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 107 
 
 But Nanuk did not hear it. He had stumbled to his 
 feet and fallen sideways to the ground. 
 
 ' I gather, then,' remarked the surgeon-captain precisely, 
 ' that before gun-fire this morning you found the old man 
 in a state of collapse below the flagstaff is this so ? ' 
 
 Private Smith, sober to smartness and smart to stiffness, 
 saluted; but there was an odd trepidation on his face. 
 ' Yes, sir I done my best for 'im, sir. I put 'im in the 
 box, sir, and give 'im my greatcoat, and I rub 'is 'ands and 
 feet, sir. I done my level best for 'im, not being able, you 
 see, sir, to go off guard. I couldn't do no more.' 
 
 ' You did very well, my man ; but if you had happened 
 to have some stimulant any alcohol, for instance.' 
 
 Private Smith's very smartness seemed to leave him in a 
 sudden slackness of relief. ' Which it were a tot of rum, 
 sir, as I 'appened to 'ave in my greatcoat pocket. It done 
 'im no 'arm, sir, did it?' 
 
 The surgeon-captain smiled furtively. ' It saved his life, 
 probably ; but you might have mentioned it before. How 
 much did he take ? ' 
 
 'About 'arf a pint, sir more nor less.' Private Smith 
 spoke under his breath with an attempt at regret ; then he 
 became loquacious. ' Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I was 
 a bit on myself, and 'e just poured it down like as it was 
 milk, an' then 'e tumbled over and I thought 'e was dead, 
 and it sobered me like. So I done my level best for 'im 
 all through.' 
 
 Perhaps he had ; for old Nanuk Singh found a comfort- 
 able spot in which to spend his remaining days when the 
 regimental doolie carried him that New Year's morning 
 from the flagstaff to the hospital. He lay ill of rheumatic
 
 io8 AT THE GREAT DURBAR 
 
 fever for weeks, and when he recovered it was to find him- 
 self and his rat quite an institution among the gaunt, listless 
 convalescents waiting for strength in their long dressing- 
 gowns. The story of how the old Sikh had drunk the 
 Queen's health has assumed gigantic proportions under 
 Private Smith's care, and something in the humour and the 
 pathos of it tickled the fancy of his hearers, who, when the 
 unfailing phrase, c An' so I done my level best for him, I 
 did,' came to close the recital, would turn to the old man 
 and say 
 
 ' Pore old Johnny an' Gord knows what 'e wanted with 
 'is rat and 'is popcorn ! ' 
 
 That was, true, since Nanuk Singh did not remember 
 even the name of his own village; and, though he still 
 talked about the plaintiff and the defendant, Purameshwar 
 and the State, he was apparently content to await his 
 chance of a hearing at another and greater durbar.
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 WE sat after lunch in the stern of the steam-launch watch- 
 ing the bridge grow from the semblance of a caterpillar 
 hung across the horizon between clusters of temples and 
 topes, to that of some monstrous skeleton whose vaulting 
 ribs rose high overhead into the pale sky. 
 
 Bannerman and I had come out from England together, 
 and come up-country together ; I to take up work at the 
 bridge, he on a sporting tour, with letters of introduction to 
 the chief engineer. We had been doing the sights of the 
 native city, and now, in company with several officials of 
 sorts, were on our way home to the reaches above. And 
 as we surged through the yellow-brown flood we talked 
 vaguely and airily of old gods and new, of Siva's religion 
 of stern reality, and Krishna's pleasure-loving cult. 
 
 ' You should read Prem Sdgar, sir,' said Mr. Chucker- 
 butty, the native assistant-engineer, aside to Bannerman, 
 who had given his vote for the latter; ' it is of much merit, 
 containing the loves of Krishna and other cognate matter.' 
 
 ' It 's a mere question of temperament,' went on Banner- 
 man, unheeding the interruption. ' Some people are born 
 to one thing, some to another. I was born to enjoy myself 
 Hullo! what's that?' 
 
 That was a low note like a bird's, a flash in the sunlight 
 beyond the huge pier along which we were edging our way 
 up the current, and then a cloop like a cork. 
 
 109
 
 iio THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 ' Sambo,' said some one. 
 
 ' His name is Rudra, sir,' replied Mr. Chuckerbutty. 
 
 ' Nilkunta, 1 Huzoorj suggested the captain of the launch. 
 I looked from one to the other interrogatively. 
 
 'The bridge-diver,' said the first speaker, 'sees after 
 the foundations and that sort of thing knows the bottom 
 of the river as well as most of us know the top. A queer 
 sort of animal there he is to your right.' 
 
 Out of the yellow-brown flood a grave, yellow-brown face 
 crowned by a curious brass pot not unlike a tiara, then two 
 yellow-brown arms, reminding me unpleasantly of snakes, 
 curved up in the overhead stroke as the swimmer slipped 
 down to where a rope hung from one of the huge ribs. 
 He swarmed up it like a monkey, to sit still as a carven 
 image on the outermost buttress of the pier, his legs crossed 
 under him, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed 
 on the swirling water below, so that the full eyelids droop- 
 ing over them gave them an empty, sightless look. 
 
 ' By George ! ' said Bannerman carelessly, ' he reminds 
 me of the big idol over at the temple. What 's its name, 
 Chuckerbutty ? You 're posted in such things ; I 'm not.' 
 
 The assistant-engineer, mindful of the B. A. degree super- 
 added to his ancestral beliefs, became evasive. 
 
 ' Well, it doesn't matter. I mean the brute like a land 
 crab with a superfluity of arms. The brute we were talking 
 of just now who crowds life and all its joys into one eternal 
 and infernal birth and death the most uninteresting 
 events of life to my mind.' 
 
 Bannerman was right. That figure on the buttress could 
 not fail to remind one of Siva, or Maha-deo the Creator 
 and the Destroyer barring, of course, the arms. And as 
 1 Blue-throated ; the name of the kingfisher.
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD in 
 
 I looked, the two which the figure possessed rose slowly 
 from its knees and hovered up in the oddest fashion above 
 its head, then sank again as slowly, leaving one with the 
 impression of any number of circumambient members. 
 
 ' Does it when he dives,' said a boy who was watching 
 also ; ' must have thought he saw something in the stream. 
 He brings up all sorts of things.' 
 
 The notion was absorbing until Chuckerbutty's idiomatic 
 English, in reply to a query of Bannerman's, roused me 
 
 ' Sambo is nickname ; but indubitably verbal corruption 
 of the Sanskrit Sambhu, lord or master. Rudra, real name, 
 has equivalent synonymous meaning. The most ancient 
 god mentioned in Rig Veda. Symbolised in eight attri- 
 butes, sun, moon, water, earth, air, fire, ether, and soul of 
 man. In other words, the visible and invisible universe 
 as Siva the Creator, the Preserver, the Destroyer.' 
 
 Chuckerbutty puffed at his cigar in quite a European 
 fashion. 
 
 ' What rot ! ' murmured Bannerman under his breath. 
 
 'And as for Nilkunta,' put in the boy, 'that is simple. 
 It means blue-throated, and Sambo is tatooed all round.' 
 
 'Yet is that also name of Siva,' interposed Chuckerbutty 
 with importance. ' As per Mahabharata 
 
 " To soften human ills dread Siva drank 
 The poisonous flood which stained his azure neck." 
 
 'Nil-kunt is also sometimes applied to the bird kingfisher by 
 Europeans ; but this is erroneous. It belongs properly ' 
 
 I heard no more, my thoughts being with that odd 
 figure again. It was certainly a most extraordinary re- 
 semblance. 
 
 ' Well, if you really are going to fish for mahseer at Kurd-
 
 ii2 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 war, Mr. Bannerman, you should take advantage of that 
 man's knowledge,' said the chief pompously. ' He goes on 
 leave next week his home is somewhere in the hills and 
 he knows everything that is to be known about fishing.' 
 
 Bannerman laughed. ' Back myself against him any day, 
 even on the Ganges. I expect I 've as much general good 
 luck in every way as any one in this world.' 
 
 He gave you that impression. In addition he was 
 eminently handsome if a trifle dark for a country where 
 people fight shy of any admixture of blood. Extraordinarily 
 graceful and supple, too, doing everything with extraordinary 
 grace and skill. Beyond that, rich. For the rest, cosmo- 
 politan in mind and manners. As for morals, that does 
 not enter into the equation of a pleasant chance acquaint- 
 ance, and the only blemish I could lay finger on was an 
 excess of jewellery. But that was a hobby of his. He 
 was for ever waylaying the passers-by and wanting to make 
 a deal for their ornaments, regardless of injured feelings. 
 It was a mere question of money, like everything else, he 
 asserted, and he generally succeeded in getting what he 
 fancied. Apparently he fancied Sambo, or Rudra, or 
 Nilkunta whichever you choose to call him, for, a day 
 or two afterwards, the man came to me clothed in the 
 loose garments and aggressive turban usually worn by 
 Mohammedans. He looked less startling, but the type of 
 face was utterly new to me. 
 
 'I am a hunter, Huzoor,' he said gravely indeed I 
 think his face was the gravest I ever saw. * I kill to live ; 
 I live to kill. That is all. I come from the mountains, 
 and I know the river. Wherefore not, since it is my 
 birthplace ? None know it as I ; others may claim it, but 
 it is mine, and the fish also. It is all one to Nil-kunt the
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 113 
 
 diver, Huzoor. Eshspoon bait, feather fly, or poach-net. 
 I kill to live ; I live to kill. That is the old way, the best 
 way ; and if the Huzoor comes with " Buniah-man " sahib, 
 he will catch big fish.' 
 
 ' And the sahib also, I hope ? ' 
 
 c The sahib thinks he knows, but he is a stranger to the 
 river and the old ways. He must learn them.' 
 
 A week after this, Bannerman and I were encamped on 
 the south side of the gorge through which the sacred river 
 debouches on the plains, with Sambo, who was on leave, as 
 our boatman. And curiously out of place he looked in the 
 English built wherry which my host had insisted on bring- 
 ing up by rail. He had never, he said, been able to stand 
 the discomforts of a Noah's Ark, and he did not intend 
 to begin self-denial, even though he was in the birthplace 
 of the most ascetic cult the world had ever known; if 
 indeed the worshippers of Siva had right on their side in 
 claiming Hurdwar as Hara-dwara the gate of Siva. For 
 his part he inclined to the Vaishnava view. Hari-dwara, 
 gate of Vishnu, was just as likely a derivation. It was only 
 the change of a letter ; and yet that made all the difference 
 between believing in pleasure or penance. He talked 
 away in his reckless fashion about this as we fished fruit- 
 lessly, the first evening ; fruitlessly, for I was crippled with 
 a slight sprain of the wrist, and Bannerman caught nothing. 
 And Sambo sat gravely sculling, with a perfectly immovable 
 face, until Bannerman, who was changing his fly for the 
 fiftieth time at least, leant forward suddenly and laid his 
 hand on the other's wrist. 
 
 ' That 's a fine cat's-eye,' he said, looking at a ring on the 
 supple brown finger. ' How much will you take for it?' 
 
 ' I do not sell,' replied Sambo, still without a quiver of 
 H
 
 114 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 expression. The water dropped from the upheld oar like 
 molten gold. I could hear it fall in the silence, as those 
 two sat looking at each other. But my eyes were on those 
 hands clasped upon each other ; they were extraordinarily 
 alike in contour and not far apart in colour. 
 
 'Ten rupees! twenty! forty!' he went on. 'What! 
 you won't ? Here ! let me see it closer. I don't believe 
 it is worth more even to me unless I 'm mistaken. Hand 
 it over, man ! ' 
 
 Bannerman turned the ring over curiously, and a sudden 
 interest came to his face. 
 
 ' It isn't worth five, but I 've taken a fancy to it. Fifty ! 
 a hundred ! a thousand ! ' 
 
 ' I do not sell,' repeated Sambo indifferently. 
 
 ' Not sell ! then you 're a fool ! Here, catch ! ' 
 
 He spun the ring like a coin high into the air. Perhaps 
 he had meant it to fall into the boat, but it did not, and 
 as I leant over in dismay I could see it sinking in shim- 
 mering circles through the sunlit water. 
 
 Sambo did not even seem surprised, but crossing the 
 oars leisurely proceeded to strip. 
 
 ' It does not matter,' he said briefly. ' Mai Gunga * is 
 kind to me, and I know my way to her bosom.' 
 
 A minute or so afterwards he came up from the depths 
 with the ring fast held in his teeth. 
 
 ' The fish are lying between the shallow and the deep,' 
 he remarked, as if nothing had happened. ' If the Huzoor 
 will believe me he will catch them.' 
 
 Apparently the faith was wanting, for we did not see a 
 fin till I commenced fishing ; and even then the luck was 
 all with me. Bannerman began to grow restive, suggesting 
 1 The Ganges.
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 115 
 
 that in a boat ' one man's sport was another man's spoil ' ; 
 so we moved across the range of the Siwaliks to higher 
 ground. We pitched our tents between the river and a 
 backwater, where the boat which despite my advice 
 Bannerman insisted on bringing round by road lay 
 moored ^beneath a big cotton tree. A desirable resting- 
 place certainly cool and shadowy, and haunted by many 
 a kingfisher busy among the shoals of silvery fishlets in 
 the still water. Across the river, just above its great race 
 to the gorge below, stood a group of Hindu temples 
 backed by sun-steeped slopes ablaze with flowering, scented 
 shrubs. Further up, however, the hills sank almost to the 
 level, leaving a wedge of sky clear, before rising again in 
 swift gradations of blue, cleft by a purple chasm marking 
 the further course of the river towards the snows of 
 Kedarnath. 
 
 'You live yonder, do you not?' I asked of Sambo, 
 pointing to the peaks, as I stood settling my tackle. 
 
 For the first time a slow smile showed on the man's fine, 
 delicate face. ' No, Huzoor. I live everywhere. Wherever 
 there are things to kill, and that is in most places. But 
 not here, sahib,' he continued hastily, turning to Banner- 
 man, who was about to launch his minnow into a likely 
 spot. ' This pool is sacred to the god yonder.' 
 
 And sure enough, close to the water's edge, beneath the 
 shade of a banyan tree, stood a crowned image of Maha- 
 deo, with his eight arms, his necklace of snakes, and 
 chaplet of skulls. 
 
 'Dash it all!' muttered Bannerman impatiently, 'as if 
 the world were not full enough of limitations as it is ! 
 I '11 have it out with that old land crab some day.' 
 
 His irritation grew as the days passed bringing continued
 
 u6 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 ill-luck. But what wonder, he said, when the fish were fed 
 and pampered by the priests morning and evening, that 
 they would not take his lure? For his part he did not 
 believe there was a fin in any other pool in the river 
 at least when he fished it. 
 
 ' The Huzoor can see, if he chooses,' said Sambo gravely. 
 
 'I suppose I can as well as you, anyhow,' retorted 
 Bannerman. 
 
 ' Then let him look.' As he spoke Sambo swung himself 
 into the branch of a cotton tree which, swaying with his 
 weight, scattered its huge scarlet flowers on the water. 
 Perhaps it was this, engendering a hope of food ; perhaps 
 it was the curious low whistle he made, but instantly the 
 calm surface of the pool wavered, shifted, and broke into 
 ripples. Sambo stretched himself full length on the branch 
 and craned forward with his long blue neck. 
 
 'Plenty of them, Huzoor I Beauties! That one with 
 the scar is full twenty sirs weight. See ! I will catch it.' 
 
 He slid from the branch like an otter, to reappear a 
 second afterwards with the fish bent round his neck like 
 a yoke of silver. 
 
 'It is bad luck,' he continued, 'and the Huzoor must do 
 puja l to the great god. That is the only way.' 
 
 Bannerman's face was a study, and to soothe him I re- 
 marked that I had been lucky enough without any one's help. 
 
 'How does the Huzoor know?' asked Sambo boldly. 
 ' If he had been up by dawn he might have thought other- 
 wise, since the blood of the cock I sacrificed in his name 
 still reddens the feet of Ishwara.' 
 
 ' The devil you did ! ' I exclaimed laughing ; ' then sacri- 
 fice two for Bannerman sahib to-morrow.' 
 Worship.
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 117 
 
 The latter, however, turned on him fiercely. 'If you 
 dare ! ' he began ; then pulled himself together, muttered 
 
 something about its being 'd d rot,' and went oft 
 
 declaring he would fish no more till dusk drove the glare 
 from the water. 
 
 I found him hours after lolling on his bed, and reading 
 a translation of the Prem Sagar. It was as amusing and 
 true to life as a modern French novel, he was pleased to 
 remark, and Krishna with his milkmaids the wisest of gods. 
 In fact, after dinner, as we sat smoking outside, he recurred 
 to the subject, denouncing the folly of all ascetic cults 
 from Baal downwards. 
 
 ' You are awfully well up in it all,' I said, surprised at 
 his knowledge. 
 
 'Seems to come to me, to-night, somehow,' he replied 
 gaily; 'things do, you know previous state of existence 
 and all that rot. Besides, it's needed when a fellow 
 calmly suggests my making a blood offering ! To a brute 
 of a land crab too a miserable fetish evolved from the 
 fears of a semi-ape a creature incapable of rising above 
 the limitations of his own discomfort, counting this lovely 
 life as mere birth and death, and ignoring the joys between 
 the only realities in the world.' 
 
 He went on in this fashion, till, declaring that he meant 
 to be up by dawn, both to catch a fish and prevent the 
 blood sacrifice, he turned in. I could hear him humming 
 the refrain of a French song as I sat on the scented flood 
 of moonlight. 
 
 It was not a night surely to waste in sleep ! The very 
 flowers kept the memory of their colours, and every now 
 and again I could hear the silvery splash of a fish rising 
 on the level reaches beyond. But from below came a
 
 Ii8 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 vibration in the air like the first breathing of an organ 
 note. That was the river racing to the gorge. 
 
 Scarcely knowing what I did, I strolled over to the 
 backwater which circled round the oasis of the valley. A 
 fringe of trees marked its course, and behind them the 
 hill sloped up in a tangle of jasmine and pomegranate, 
 while on the river-side grew shingle and grass tufted with 
 oleanders. In the distance, faint yet clear, came a snatch 
 or two of Bannerman's fin de siecle song. And then 
 suddenly, round a bend, rose the low note of a kingfisher. 
 Could it be a kingfisher at that hour of the night? 
 
 By all the gods, old and new, what was this? Sambo? 
 Could that be Sambo knee-deep in the water? Sambo 
 with a golden tiara on his head and girt about the waist 
 with a regal robe? Purple and red at least you guessed 
 the colour, just as you guessed that the shadowy pillar of 
 that long neck was blue. Were those his arms curved 
 above him, or were they snakes, swaying, swaying in the 
 moonlight with hooded heads and open jaws? And was 
 that cry Sambo's or the kingfisher's ? Then, and not till 
 then, I saw the bird perched on a branch above the 
 strange figure ; and even as I looked it swooped straight 
 into those swaying, snake like arms, bearing something in 
 its mouth. 
 
 I suppose in my surprise I made some exclamation, for 
 the figure turned quickly. Then, for the first time, I felt 
 sure it was only the "diver in his diving dress. The next 
 instant he was beside me on the bank, holding out a small 
 land crab for my inspection. 
 
 'It is the best bait, Huzoor. Better than phantom or 
 esh- spoon? 
 
 I felt utterly bewildered and not a little aggrieved at his
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 119 
 
 everyday appearance. 'But, but,' I began, 'how the 
 mischief did you make the bird ? ' 
 
 His hand went up to his throat as if in explanation. 
 "Tis the trick of their cry, Huzoor; besides birds are 
 afraid of the holy snake ; and even the Huzoor doubted 
 his own eyes. It is good bait. If Buniah-man sahib will 
 consent to use it, he will have luck.' 
 
 ' Of course he will use it,' I replied angrily ; and then a 
 sudden doubt seized me. ' I don't know, though. I don't 
 seem to understand. I can't see ' 
 
 'The Huzoor has two eyes,' he interrupted, with an- 
 other of his slow smiles. 'Does he want a third, like 
 mine ? ' 
 
 A third ! Then I noticed a central spot on his forehead 
 set in an oval of white. In good sooth it was not unlike 
 a third eye placed upright between the others. I had seen 
 similar ones painted on the images of Siva. 
 
 ' 'Tis but a caste sign, Huzoor ,' he explained, ' I wear it 
 sometimes.' He stooped as he spoke, gathered some dust 
 in his fingers, and rubbed out the mark. ' Lo ! it grows 
 late. Midnight is past. If the Huzoor rises with the sun 
 'tis time he slept.' 
 
 True enough ; but as I strolled homewards to the tent 
 my eyes fell by chance on the shade beneath the great 
 banyan tree where the idol stood.' The plinth was empty ! 
 It lay reflected in the water vacant, bare ! Scarcely know- 
 ing what I did, or why I did it, I ran back to where I had 
 left Sambo, calling him by all his names in turn. But 
 there was no answer, and when in hopeless bewilderment 
 I retraced my steps it was only to find myself mistaken. 
 The eight-armed image stood in its accustomed place, 
 reflected in the still water.
 
 uo THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 I was glad when the dawn came, one of those lemon- 
 coloured dawns when the sky grows light at once. 
 
 ' Had the jolliest dreams,' said Bannerman, coming out 
 of his tent. ' Dreamt I was Krishna among the milkmaids. 
 
 Wish I could find one in this fish-forsaken place, I 'd 
 
 Hullo, what the mischief is that on my line ? ' 
 
 It was Sambo's land crab neatly impaled on a Stuart 
 tackle. I began an explanation only to stop short at the 
 to me absolutely incomprehensible intensity of both the 
 faces before me. Dimly I seemed to recognise the situa- 
 tion, and then it escaped me again. 
 
 'Tomfoolery! One might as well fish with that ridiculous 
 fetish at once,' came Bannerman's jeering voice. 'What 
 was it Chuckerbutty drivelled about? eight attributes 
 tall order for any god ! Well ! here they go. No, Sambo, 
 you may keep one the soul of a man, if there be such a 
 thing ' 
 
 He had torn off five of the crab's legs, leaving three ; 
 two of them the nipping claws, which, with gaping jaws, 
 swayed about seeking reprisals. 
 
 ' There ! take your offering, Siva ! snakes, and souls, and 
 all ! ' He flung the maimed creature full in the idol's face 
 as we sculled past it. I shall never forget Sambo's look. 
 
 ' You shouldn't do that sort of thing,' I remonstrated in 
 a low voice. ' If the priests saw it ; then this man ' 
 
 ' Bah ! Nilkunta won't mind, and rupees will settle 
 anything.' I tried to make him understand they would 
 not in these fastnesses of the Hindu faith, but almost 
 immediately afterwards his attention wandered to a woman's 
 figure which, as we rowed up the river, was outlined 
 equally against earth and sky, while figure, earth, and sky 
 shared equally the perfect reflection in the water.
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 121 
 
 'By George, a milkmaid!' he cried. She was not unlike 
 one in dress, certainly, but her face, marked with the 
 crescent of Siva on the forehead, was of a different type ; 
 beautiful too, and Bannerman simply couldn't take his 
 eyes off her. 
 
 ' Who is she ? Who can she be ? Sambo ! Rudra ! 
 Nilkunta ! whichever you are do you know who she can 
 be ? ' he queried in hot excitement. 
 
 'She is somebody's house. Huzoor? The voice was 
 cold as an icicle. 
 
 ' Somebody's house ! What a way to mention a woman, 
 beautiful beautiful as but it 's the old Puritanical game ! 
 A house a hearth mother the British matron in Eastern 
 disguise Mrs. Grundy in a sari. I say, Nil-kunt, whose 
 house do you think she is? I should like to buy the 
 freehold.' 
 
 ' She is your slave's house,' replied the man without a 
 wink. 
 
 ' The dickens she is ! ' blurted out my companion, some- 
 what abashed for the time. Perhaps that was Sambo's 
 intention. At any rate I have no means of knowing if he 
 spoke the truth or not. Indeed, looking back on it all, I 
 scarcely seem to know what really happened, and what 
 must have been sheer fancy. Only this remains clear; a 
 growing antagonism between these two, a growing dis- 
 inclination on Bannerman's part to do anything but lounge 
 away his days. 
 
 ' Can't help it, my dear fellow,' he would say, ' it 's the 
 air, or something. If I had a shepherd's pipe I'd play it. 
 And as for flowers ! Do you know, some one puts a 
 bunch of them on my pillow every night. I believe it's 
 the milkmaid ! '
 
 122 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 There were flowers, too, garlanded round his door, while 
 just over the way those ominous splashes of red on Ishwara's 
 feet seemed to grow deeper and deeper. 
 
 At last I put the case baldly and crudely before him. 
 Something was going on which I didn't understand, which 
 might get him into mischief at any moment, and I appealed 
 to his good sense to put the Siwaliks between him and a 
 temptation which seemed to have fascinated him. He 
 laughed, admitted the fact, and yielded ; the more readily 
 because our time was almost up. 
 
 For the first two days he was rewarded by success in 
 the lower reaches; possibly since fish shy at novelty 
 because we used a native Noah's Ark, our own boat 
 remaining in the backwater till we could send coolies to 
 fetch it. On the third he left the river early on plea 
 of a headache. As he had been in wild spirits all day, 
 quoting the Prem Sdgar and singing French songs, I half 
 thought he was going in for fever, the day being exception- 
 ally hot. But on my return at dusk the servants asked if 
 I would wait dinner for the sahib or not. Beset by 
 immediate misgivings I rushed into his tent, where I 
 found a slip of paper impaled like a bait on some tackle 
 lying on the table. 
 
 'Off to the divine milkmaid! Don't wait. Vogue la 
 galere ! ' 
 
 ( How far ? ' I asked Sambo breathlessly. 
 
 ' Twenty kos by the road the sahib borrowed the police 
 inspector's mare not half that over the hills. But the 
 moon is late, and the snakes love the dark.' 
 
 If it had been the darkness of Egypt I had no choice 
 but to follow, and half an hour afterwards I was stumbling 
 along after Sambo. Even by daylight the hills, heat-
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 123 
 
 cracked, rain-seared, strewn with sharp rocks, were bad 
 walking; on a dark, hot night, with the snakes' eyes 
 gleaming from the stones, they were horrible most 
 horrible. The straight fingers of the stiff candelabra 
 bushes pointing up and up, the gnarled, stunted trees 
 growing into strange shapes, reminding one involuntarily 
 of those antediluvian animals whose bones lie buried all 
 along the Siwaliks. A cold sweat of suspense lay upon 
 my forehead despite the scorching blast tearing down the 
 ravines; scorching, yet laden with the scent of earth, as 
 from a new-made grave. 
 
 ' There has been rain in the hills beyond,' said Sambo's 
 voice out of the dark. I lost sight of him constantly, and 
 at the best of times he was little more than another weird 
 shape among the shadows. ' Holy Maha-deo ! Have a 
 care, Huzoor \ Let the snake pass in peace ! ' 
 
 As he spoke something curved over my instep. Such 
 things take the nerve out of a European ; but I stumbled 
 on, peering into the darkness, trying to think of Banner- 
 man's danger, and not of that next step and what it might 
 bring. But it came at last just as we dipped into a 
 cooler, moister glen, where I could hear the flying foxes 
 hovering from tree to tree a slither of the foot, and then 
 a spiral coil up my leg gripping the muscles tight. My 
 shriek echoed from the heat-hardened, resounding rocks 
 until the whole hillside seemed peopled by my fear ; and 
 even when Sambo, stooping down, uncoiled the snake and 
 threw it into the darkness, I could scarcely realise that I 
 was none the worse for having put my heel on a viper's 
 head. My nerve seemed gone ; I could not move, except 
 at a snail's pace. 
 
 ' Time speeds,' came Sambo's voice again. ' The moon
 
 124 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 rises but the clouds gather. If the Huzoor would only not 
 mind ' 
 
 ' I 'd mind nothing if I could see see as you seem to 
 do,' I muttered, ashamed yet aggrieved. 
 
 'That is it/ he replied; 'the Httzoor cannot see, and the 
 holy snakes do not know him as they know me. If the 
 sahib will let me put the caste mark on his forehead as it 
 is on mine he need not fear. It can do no harm, Huzoor! 
 
 True; besides the very idea by suggesting confidence 
 might restore it. 
 
 1 Lest the dust should fall into the Huzoor' s eyes,' said 
 the voice softly, and I felt long thin fingers on my eyelids; 
 then something on my forehead, cold and hard ; cold and 
 hard like a ring the effect of such pressure when the 
 eyes are closed is always confusing, and I felt as if I was 
 dozing off when the same soft voice roused me 
 
 'The Huzoor can see now.' 
 
 I opened my eyes with a start as if from sleep. Had the 
 moon risen, or whence came that pale light by which I saw 
 what did I not see ? Everything, surely, that had been 
 created since the world began : the tiny watersprites in the 
 half-stagnant pools, the flying motes in the dim air. Or 
 did I dream it? Did I only feel and know that they were 
 there, part of those endless, endless jeons of life and death 
 in which I was a unit. 
 
 'Sambo,' I gasped feebly, but there was no answer. 
 Where was I ? By degrees memory returned. This must 
 be the Gayatri glen, for there, at the further end, stood the 
 great image of the dread Maha-deo where the pilgrims 
 worshipped; and surely the odd light came from that 
 gleaming cat's-eye on its forehead ? Surely, too, the snakes 
 curled and swayed, the outstretched hands opened and
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 125 
 
 shut ? My own went up to my forehead in my bewilder- 
 ment, when, suddenly, the light seemed to fade, till I could 
 just see Nilkunta's blue throat as he stood beside me. 
 
 'The Huzoor has scratched his forehead; the blood 
 trickles from it. See, I have brought a tulsi leaf. There ! 
 that is better,' I felt the coolness between my eyes, and 
 something of my bewilderment seemed to pass away. 
 
 'It is the Gayatri, Huzoor^ and yonder is Maha-deo. 
 He is but half-way, so we must press on. The sahib can 
 see now ; there is no fear.' 
 
 None. Yet did I see them, or was I only conscious of 
 that teeming life in the jungles ? Of the tiger crouching 
 by our path, the snakes slipping from it, the deer standing 
 to watch us, and, strangest of all, those shapes hiding in 
 the dim shadows undreamt-of monsters, neither fish, 
 flesh, nor fowl? Was it a dream? or the idea brought 
 a faint hysterical laugh was it the Zoological Gardens 
 and the British Museum rolled into one ? 
 
 'We must cross the river, Huzoor] said the dim form 
 flitting before me; 'Buniah-man sahib will have taken 
 the boat.' 
 
 I suppose it was the usual rope bridge swung across the 
 narrowing chasm of the river, but it seemed to me that 
 night as if I walked on air. Below me, not ten feet from 
 the lowest curve of the loop, was the Ganges, wrinkled and 
 seamed, slipping giddily eastwards : overhead, a stream of 
 clouds speeding eastwards also. 
 
 'She rises fast,' muttered Sambo. ' Mai Gunga is in a 
 hurry to-night.' 
 
 The whole world was in a hurry. I seemed to hear 
 flying feet keeping time with our own. Not an instant's 
 pause was there even for breath until we reached the last
 
 126 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 declivity above the little oasis of the valley. The moon 
 had risen, but the clouds hurrying across her face gave 
 greater uncertainty to the scene; still I could see a 
 woman's figure standing with widespread arms by the 
 edge of the rising river. I could see a man sending a 
 boat across the shallows with mighty strokes. And 
 above the growing rush of the water I could hear two 
 murmuring voices, which seemed to fill the world with 
 soft antagonism. ' Ooma ! Ooma I ' from the hills ; 
 ' Radhal JRddhaf from the valley. These were calling to 
 the woman, and, as in a dream, I seemed to remember and 
 understand : Radha, the queen of pleasure ; Ooma, the 
 mother of the universe Krishna's mistress, and Siva's wife ! 
 I looked round for Sambo. He was gone ; so I ran on 
 alone feeling there was no time to be lost. My foot slipped 
 and I fell heavily. But I was up again in a second unhurt, 
 save, perhaps, for that scratch on my forehead, whence I 
 could feel the blood flowing as I dashed into the shadow 
 of the banyan tree. Merciful heaven ! what was this ? A 
 glare as of noonday, and two radiant forms with a cowering 
 woman between them ! between the chaplets of skulls and 
 the chaplets of flowers. And behind them was an empty 
 plinth ! Before I had time to realise what I saw, came 
 shouts and cries, a melee and a scuffle. Armed men ran out 
 of the shadows, and then Sambo's voice rose insistent, ' Run, 
 sahib, run ! 'Tis' your only chance. The boat the 
 boat ! ' Then some one hit me over the head from 
 behind, and when I came to myself I was lying in the 
 bottom of the boat. Bannerman was standing beside me 
 shaking his fist impotently at the twinkling lights on the 
 bank, and Sambo sat aft steering as best he could; for 
 the oars had gone, and we were racing with the flood
 
 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 127 
 
 towards the rapids. They had bound up my head with 
 something, but I still felt stunned, and the rush of the 
 rising river surged in my ears through the thin planks 
 as I lay. So perhaps it was only my fancy that those 
 two sat talking, talking, arguing, arguing, about the old, 
 old problems. 
 
 Till suddenly I sat up to the clear sound of Sambo's 
 voice 
 
 ' It is not to be done, Huzoor. We are in the hands 
 of fate. If death comes, it will come, but it will end in 
 birth.' 
 
 The answer was that half-jeering laugh I knew so well. 
 ' I '11 chance it, Nil-kunt ; I don't believe you.' 
 
 Bannerman had stripped to the skin, and stood forward 
 looking at the narrowing rush of the river. I could see 
 the great logs of wood, swept from the hill-forests above, 
 dancing along beside us on the curved surface of the 
 stream so curved by the very force of the current that 
 as our boat, steered by Sambo's skill, kept the centre, the 
 dim banks slid past below us. Across them, just ahead, a 
 curved thread not four feet, now the flood had risen, above 
 the water. The rope bridge ! Then I understood. 
 
 ' Don't ! ' I cried feebly. ' No man can withstand the 
 force of the stream.' 
 
 He crooked his knees beneath the thwarts and held up 
 his arms. 
 
 ' Don't ' I cried again. 
 
 The boat slackened for an instant for an instant only. 
 Then it shot on, leaving Bannerman clinging to the rope 
 shot on round the bend, leaving him hanging there between 
 birth and death. But Sambo never took his watchful eyes 
 off those merry, dancing logs, which meant destruction.
 
 128 THE BLUE-THROATED GOD 
 
 The horror of it all was too much. I fainted. When 
 consciousness returned, Sambo, grave and composed, was 
 bending over me. We were drifting fast into the back- 
 water before my own bungalow, and behind us, looking 
 spectral in the first glint of dawn, lay the great bridge, the 
 flare of the watch-fires on its piers telling of the severity 
 of the flood. 
 
 ' The Huzoor is at home,' said the man quietly ; ' if 
 Buniah-man sahib had taken my advice he would have 
 been at home also.' 
 
 We had been a whole day and night on the river ; but 
 he seemed no more fatigued than I, who had escaped all 
 the suspense. For the rest, no trace remained of the 
 adventure save an oval scratch on my forehead surround- 
 ing the faint vestiges of something like an eye. 
 
 'It is the mark of Siva,' said my servant piously he had 
 come down with haste by rail to bring the news of my 
 death 'doubtless he took the Huzoor under his protection ; 
 for which I will offer a blood oblation without delay.' 
 
 Bannerman's body was never found ; but some months 
 after, when I was inspecting foundations, I heard the king- 
 fisher's cry, and the familiar cloop of a dive at the further 
 side of the pier. Then Sambo, Rudra, Nilkunta what- 
 ever you please to call him showed his yellow-brown face 
 above the yellow-brown flood bearing a ring in his mouth : 
 a Palais Royal affair two diamond hearts transfixed by a 
 ruby arrow. 
 
 I had seen Bannerman wear it a hundred times, but I 
 had never seen the inscription engraved inside 
 ' Thy lips, O beloved Life, are nectar.' 
 
 It was a quotation from the Krishna or Prem Sagar \
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 DOST forget, brother, that it is the Fast?' said Raheem, 
 as with gentle, determined hand he pushed the leaf-cup 
 of sweets further from the board on which his tools lay. 
 There were not many of them, though the inlaid work 
 upon the sandalwood comb he was making showed deli- 
 cate as lace. It suited the delicate hands employed upon 
 it; in a way also it suited the delicate brain behind the 
 high, narrow forehead, which had a look of ill-health about 
 the temples, where the thick, coarse, black hair was also 
 delicately streaked with silver ; sure sign, in a land where 
 greyness is long deferred, of a troubled body or mind. 
 Raheem had barely touched middle age ; in his case the 
 trouble seemed to be in both body and mind, to judge 
 by his hollow eyes and the expression in them as they 
 rested on a younger man, who sat, as a visitor, on the 
 plinth of the comb-maker's shop. His feet were in the 
 gutter, and his handsome head was nodding gaily to various 
 acquaintances in the steady stream of passers-by ; for the 
 odd little shop was wedged into the outer angle of a sharp 
 bend in the narrow bazaar, so that as Raheem sat working 
 at his scented combs he could see both ways could see 
 all the world, coming and going, from dawn till dark. 
 
 Hoshyar laughed, nodding his handsome head once 
 more : ' Yea ! I forgot that thou dost fast for both of us, 
 
 i
 
 130 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 and pray for both of us. Mayhap in the end, brother, 
 thou rnayest have to go to Paradise for both of us, despite 
 all thy pains.' 
 
 The busy hand ceased to work in a gesture of negation. 
 'Say not such things, Hoshyar. We go together, or go 
 not at all. Thou knowest that was my promise to the 
 dead.' 
 
 Hoshyar ate another comfit before replying with a shrug 
 of the shoulders : ' 'Twas not on stamped paper, though, 
 and promises are naught nowadays without it. Tis l?ad 
 policy to be over-pious, brother. As all know, the saint's 
 beard goes in relics, and to tell truth, I would be better 
 pleased to leave Paradise to those who wish for it. The 
 world suits me. I was not born to be religious, as thou 
 vvert.' 
 
 The comb-maker looked at him with a sort of perplexed 
 patience. 'God knows His own work,' he said in a low 
 voice. 'The Potter makes; the World fills. I remember 
 when thou first wentest to school, Hoshyar, how thou didst 
 weep because it prevented thee from prayer-time. And at 
 the festivals, dost remember, brother, thou hadst a little 
 coat of brocade ? Mother cut it from our father's old one 
 she cherished so ' 
 
 ' Old tales, old tales ! ' interrupted Hoshyar, rising with 
 another shrug of his shoulders. 'If thou hadst wished me 
 to continue in them, why didst send me to school to learn 
 new ones? Why didst not make me a comb-carver in- 
 stead of a clerk? Then might I have saved money, as 
 thou hast, gone on the great pilgrimage, as thou hast, 
 and worn a green turban like thine to show it, as thou 
 dost ' 
 
 A sharp spasm of pain swept over the older man's face,
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 131 
 
 but there was anger also in his voice. ' As thou wouldst 
 have done also, clerk though thou art, if ' 
 
 ' Yea, I know, I know ! ' interrupted Hoshyar im- 
 patiently; 'if I had not emptied the bag so often. But 
 'tis a pity to let money lie idle. And that time when thou 
 hadst the sum needed for the journey, I would have gone. 
 I meant to have gone, I swear it ; but the leave failed, and 
 thou wouldst not, surely, have had me give up my post ? 
 Then, ere the leave came, the money had gone instead. 
 I can never keep it lying idle, and so ' 
 
 Raheem's anger faded, leaving nothing but the pain. 
 What use was there in finishing the sentence, in reproach- 
 ing the sinner with having done far worse than let good 
 money lie idle? The fact only made the pilgrimage a 
 greater necessity than ever, if Nakir and Munkir, the re- 
 cording angels, were to be bribed to leniency. 'Thou 
 shalt have the green turban yet,' he said quietly, 'if thou 
 wilt have patience. But my combs are not like Peera's 
 over the way : he makes a dozen to my one ; ay, and sells 
 them, too, for folk buy ever the cheapest thing, nowadays, 
 even for an Eed-offering.' l 
 
 There was almost an incredulous wonder in his voice 
 as he went on working, while Hoshyar stood kicking one 
 patent-leather shoe viciously against a loose brick in the 
 pavement. ' And in the meantime the future pilgrim must 
 live,' he remarked jestingly, as if, even to his effrontery, 
 it was easier to treat what he had to say thus, than in 
 earnest. 'So if thou couldst spare a rupee or two from 
 the bag, Raheem, ' 
 
 His brother's eyes looked up, full of reproach. ' I know 
 what thou wouldst say,' he went on pettishly. ' I have had 
 1 Equivalent to our Easter.
 
 132 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 more than my share this month ; but I need it sorely. The 
 skinflints at the office have cut my pay for being late, as if 
 I could help the tramcar passing full five minutes before its 
 time, so I had to walk. And then the mixed train, which 
 is ever an hour late, chose to be punctual ; so there was 
 none to receive the waybills.' He paused, and seeing the 
 doubt on Raheem's face, continued: 'As for the combs, 
 if thou hast difficulty in selling, I might try. That one 
 thou madest last with jasmine flowers in ivory, 'tis a deft 
 piece of work, and I know one who might buy it.' 
 
 'Not Yasmeena?' asked Raheem, his face hardening, 
 despite the girl-like flush which came to it. 
 
 Hoshyar laughed uneasily. 'Thou hast Yasmeena on 
 thy brain, brother. She is no worse than others of her trade, 
 and that will last till all men are of thy way of thinking. 
 Yasmeena ! Nay, thou knowest she hath not the money 
 to pay for such costly gewgaws, for she is not as the others, 
 now ; she is not to be bought or sold herself.' 
 
 A man more of the world than Raheem, noting the 
 change of tone in the last words, would have augured 
 much of Yasmeena's power over the speaker ; but the 
 comb-maker was too simple for such wisdom. ' If she 
 buy it not, well and good,' he replied, relaxing his frown ; 
 'but I will lend myself to no truck between thee and 
 
 her. And as for the rupees ' He sighed, yet there 
 
 was no hesitation in the hands which began to unlock a 
 brass-bound box lying beside his board. ' Thou wouldst 
 rise earlier, brother,' he continued, almost tenderly, as he 
 counted three rupees from a little bag into the outstretched 
 palm awaiting the gift, ' if thou wouldst sleep a little earlier 
 also. Lo ! I sleep and wake with the birds, since my work 
 must be of the light.'
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 133 
 
 It streamed full upon him and his tools as he spoke, 
 a pale gold flame of sunshine, searching for each flaw, 
 each failure. 
 
 'Couldst not make it five, Raheem?' came the sordid 
 voice. ' That is bare bread.' 
 
 The flame of the sunshine had found a resting-place in 
 Raheem's eyes as he looked at the beggar from head to 
 foot. 'And this is salvation,' he replied, dropping the 
 bag back into the box with a chink, and turning the key 
 upon it. 
 
 Salvation ! Yes ! that is what it really meant to Raheem. 
 It meant salvation for one soul; but for which? After 
 his brother had gone, he asked himself this question for 
 the hundredth time, asked it almost feverishly. Ought he 
 to trust to the chance ? Was it likely that he would have 
 time ere his life ended that life which had always been 
 so uncertain to make provision for both himself and 
 Hoshyar in death? It would not do to trust Hoshyar 
 with the money. He, Raheem, must make the pilgrimage 
 for him; and was it likely when the rupees came so 
 slowly and went so fast that the hoard in the bag would 
 be complete for years ? Ought he not then to make over 
 as according to the canon he could do if he chose the 
 virtue of that past pilgrimage to his brother, and take the 
 risk of the coming one upon himself? Hoshyar needed 
 virtue sorely, and yet the very thought of going forth to 
 the Judgment-Seat without the panoply in which for long 
 years he had found peace and shelter was a terror to 
 Raheem. Could he do it? Nay, it was too much; and 
 yet if that promise to the dead were broken wilfully 
 what good would imputed righteousness be before the 
 Throne ?
 
 134 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 And meanwhile Hoshyar his brother, a clerk in the 
 railway, sat smoking a vile cigar at the feet of Yasmeena, 
 who, lounging on a string bed, was drawing the scented 
 sandalwood comb, inlaid with the flowers whose name 
 she bore, through her sleek hair. 'Give it me, beloved,' 
 she said scornfully; 'then thy promise to the saint will 
 be secure. I must have it ; 'tis the prettiest in the bazaar ; 
 even Gulanari, with all her airs, has not its marrow. See, 
 I will sell it to her when I tire of it, and then thou canst 
 give back his three rupees to the miser. Three rupees ! 
 I shall spend that in a day. And Monday is the Eed. 
 I must have a new gown for it, or ' 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, but her look was 
 eloquent ; and Hoshyar, as he lay awake that night, her 
 meaning driven home by hints of coming coldness, racked 
 his brains for some means of procuring the dress. Raheem 
 meanwhile lay awake also, thinking of a very different 
 costume of a robe of righteousness, a wedding-garment. 
 Those three rupees given to Hoshyar had been meant for 
 an Bed-offering, the Eed which drew so near. There was 
 no time to earn more. Should he go empty-handed to 
 give thanks for the added virtue of having been granted life 
 to keep the Great Fast, or should he offer up his pilgrimage 
 by making it over once and for all to his brother ? 
 
 Hoshyar had been asleep for hours, and the sparrows 
 were astir ere Raheem found any answer. He would wait 
 another day, he told himself, before deciding; so he sat 
 in the sunlight seeking perfection in his delicate curves 
 and lines, while the pale gold rays peeped and pryed for 
 flaws and failures. 
 
 'Have you a comb like that, finished?' asked a foreign 
 voice, making him raise his head and salaam hopefully.
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 13$ 
 
 1 None so good, Huzoor ; but I have others.' He took 
 them from the brass-bound box and waited ; then noting 
 the Englishman's look, said wistfully : ' I had one yester- 
 day, but it it is gone. I could finish this one quickly 
 for the Huzoor if if he pleased.' There was a catch in 
 his breath. If he could sell something, surely he might 
 keep salvation a little longer. 
 
 'Can you finish it by Monday evening?' 
 
 It would mean working extra hours, mean working 
 through the Festival when all the world rested ; but what 
 was that in comparison with the reward? Ten minutes 
 afterwards Raheem was putting three rupees into the bag. 
 He had sold out his stock, and, still more wonderful, had 
 a promise of twenty rupees more on account for future 
 work if he brought the comb punctually on the Monday 
 evening. He had not done such a business for years. 
 The Eed-offering was secure, and the chances of his hoard 
 reaching the necessary amount for a speedy pilgrimage 
 doubled. 
 
 The sun shone brighter and purer than ever on the 
 crowds assembled in the Eedgah, a huge enclosure, set 
 with trees and with a mere facade of a mosque upon its 
 western front, which lay beyond the city walls. It shone 
 on no more brilliant figure than Yasmeena's, who, in the 
 gayest of new dresses, was saying her prayers effusively ; 
 for if the daily life be doubtful, there is all the more need 
 to have the full advantage of festivals a theory which 
 obtains all over the world. But Raheem, despite his green 
 turban of the Passed Pilgrim, despite the three rupees 
 given scrupulously in charity to his neighbour, felt glad 
 to escape, when prayers were over, to his work. And yet
 
 136 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 the sight was one to stir most hearts : the long lines of 
 men, women, and children thousands and thousands and 
 thousands of them half-seen amid the shading trees ; the 
 boom of the firework-signal from the eastern gate echoing 
 like a cannon from the wide walls, and ending in a silence 
 like the grave; fifty thousand living, breathing beings 
 shoulder to shoulder, and not a sound, not a quiver ; only 
 the swish of a bird's wings, only the hush of a breeze among 
 the leaves. Then suddenly came a great shout as from 
 one throat, and the long lines bent like a field of corn 
 before a mighty wind. ' God is great ; there is no god 
 but God ! ' 
 
 And afterwards he had been used, wifeless, childless 
 himself, to wander with kindly eyes among the merry 
 family parties picnicking beneath the trees, watching the 
 little ones' delight over their new toys, the old men's 
 delight over their grandchildren. Then, often, he would 
 hear folk say in a whisper : ' Look at his turban ! He is 
 a Hajji; he has been to Mecca. Look, children, he has 
 found salvation. God grant you to follow in his steps ! ' 
 But on this Eed he took off the sign of saintship ere he 
 began work ; yet as he worked he shivered as if he were 
 cold without it. 
 
 The weight of the twenty rupees, however, which, when 
 the comb was finished and taken to the Sahib at the hotel, 
 were duly paid into his hand, seemed to make his heart 
 feel lighter. It meant two months' work, and that meant 
 two months' food. Then Hoshyar must have at least five 
 rupees. Still enough would remain to bring the hoard in 
 the brass-bound box within measurable distance of salva- 
 tion, to make it possible perhaps for him to wear his green 
 turban without a heart-ache. His present lack of the dis-
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 137 
 
 tinguishing mark seemed to strike even the Englishman's 
 eye, making him say kindly : ' I thought you wore the 
 green, and you look the sort certainly; if not, I have 
 something which may interest you. Here, Baboo, one 
 of those leaflets, please. If you want to hear more, go 
 to the address of the Agency. I 'm off to-night.' 
 
 Raheem, with a salaam, tucked the little printed page 
 into his common-place white headgear and trudged home- 
 wards, tired and dispirited. It was too dark to begin work 
 again as a distraction, and he had not had the heart, 
 somehow, to prepare himself a feast as on other Eeds ; so, 
 bethinking him of the leaflet in his turban, he took it out 
 and began to read. It was in the Arabic lettering of the 
 Holy Book he knew so well, and his eyes were keen; 
 still the wording puzzled him. A pilgrimage to Mecca, 
 exceptional opportunity, specially chartered vessel, 
 Firman, absolute orthodoxy guaranteed, to start in a 
 month's time, a limited number of tickets available at 
 Moulvie Futtehdeen's, near the mosque, Imambarah bazaar! 
 Briefly, it was the prospectus of a pilgrimage, which was 
 being organised as a speculation by a well-known firm, 
 whose travelling agent combined the business with a private 
 venture of his own in all the artistic productions he could 
 pick up by the way ; whence came the purchase of Raheem's 
 combs. 
 
 'Thou hast the way-bill, I see, Hajji,' came a cracked, 
 wistful voice, as an old man who was passing paused at 
 the plinth ; an older man even than his looks, for the 
 sparse beard was palpably dyed, and his dress still had a 
 youthful jauntiness about it. His face, however, betrayed 
 him by its wrinkles. He carried a huge dhol (a kind of 
 drum) slung by a cord about his neck, and as he spoke
 
 138 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 his lissom fingers slid and curved over the stretched goat- 
 skin, making a muffled, trembling boom. 'Not that it 
 means aught to thee,' he went on in a grumble to match. 
 'Thou hast the ticket to Paradise already. Would I had 
 it also ! I go no nearer it, yet, than damning myself by 
 playing to profligates, and so putting by a nest-egg against 
 my desire. How else, since drum-banging is my trade, 
 and drums ever keep bad company? But I grow old, 
 I grow old. Thus the sin is greater to a soul which 
 should have learned wisdom ; but the pay is less by 
 reason of fingers growing stiff. So I am wicked both 
 ways, and ere next year's pilgrimage this empty maw of 
 a thing may have swallowed me up, body and soul.' He 
 gave a more vicious knuckling to the drum, which hummed 
 and boomed in response. 
 
 'Next year's?' echoed Raheem. 
 
 ' Ay ; it comes every year, they say. There was a man 
 at Gulanari's, God knows, neighbour, I must burn if I 
 die in such company, and I so old ! Tis the drum drags 
 me to it seest thou ? it will play naught but dance-tunes, 
 though I swear I am weary of them as a lame squirrel with 
 her nest in the sky. I would play hymns, but that I am 
 hindered ; and a man's belly, Hajji Raheem, will not stay 
 empty as a drum and not shrink ; so ' 
 
 'About the pilgrimage,' suggested Raheem, knowing the 
 drum-player's talk of old. 
 
 'Ay, ay, for sure! The man, a saint for all his com- 
 pany there, seest thou, is the pull of it had / but the 
 green turban, this devil of a drum might take me where it 
 would. But as I was saying, this man said it was true, 
 every word. He had been and returned comfortably for 
 the money.'
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 139 
 
 'For so little,' murmured Raheem, looking once more 
 at the price named. It was far less than what his previous 
 experience told him would he required. 
 
 'Little!' echoed the drum-banger reproachfully. 'That 
 comes of making decent combs. Didst thou try to wheedle 
 salvation from a thing that hath neither heart nor bowels 
 of compassion, that is naught but a devil of a noise that 
 grows worse instead of better when 'tis whacked, thou 
 wouldst tell a different tale. Well, the cat, says the pro- 
 verb, killed seventy rats and went on a pilgrimage, so I 
 must wait my turn, though if I "have not more than seventy 
 sins, may I never play a measure again. I swarm with 
 them, neighbour, as flies on sugar.' He tucked the 
 tempter further under his arm, and moved on, muttering 
 to himself: 'And I have but half the money saved, so I 
 am lost if I get not virtue on a reduction.' 
 
 Raheem sat looking at the paper stupidly, as the 
 mingled growl of the drum and its beater died away. 
 Then suddenly those delicate hands of his reached out 
 swiftly to the brass-bound box. Surely he had so much, 
 or would have so much when those twenty rupees were 
 earned ! 
 
 So it came to pass in the following days that every 
 minute of the light found him at work on the scented 
 combs ; and whenever he finished one, he spent some of 
 his scanty rest in toiling over to the Imambarah bazaar, 
 and paying over its fairly-earned price to swell the deposit 
 which secured to him one of the limited supply of tickets. 
 Finally on one night, the very night before the day of 
 starting, he packed up the combs complete, took the price 
 of the last one over to the Moulvie, and received in 
 return a neat little booklet full of incomprehensible printed
 
 140 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 papers. He felt almost afraid of his new possession, with 
 its gay tie to keep everything in its place within the cover. 
 Supposing he lost something and found himself stranded ? 
 He broke out at the thought into a cold sweat, and hunted 
 hurriedly for the extra ticket which the Moulvie had told 
 him was to be used to the junction, since the railway which 
 passed through the town was not on the direct line. He 
 found it, an ordinary third-class ticket, tucked away safely ; 
 but the fright made him resolve on keeping it separate and 
 hanging the precious remainder in a bag round his neck. 
 The empty money-bag would do ; or, better still, there 
 were some bits left yet of Hoshyar's little coat of brocade, 
 and the ticket deserved a fine holder. 
 
 As he sat stitching away at the familiar fragments, how- 
 ever, by the flicker of the cresset, a certain remorse assailed 
 him at having seen so little of his brother during the past 
 month. True, Hoshyar, for various reasons, preferred 
 coming to see him ; but ever since the Eed, Raheem had 
 been dimly conscious that something seemed to have come 
 between him and the soul he meant to save. Was it that 
 he knew in his heart it ought to be already saved ? There 
 was no longer any need, however, for such questions. So 
 soon as the bag was finished he would go over and find 
 Hoshyar; would find and tell him the great secret, the 
 secret which even Raheem's small store of worldly wisdom 
 had kept jealously. 
 
 A sound at the plinth made him look up, and there 
 was Hoshyar himself. Something in his face made the 
 sewer say quickly, ' I set aside the money for thee, 
 Hoshyar, though thou earnest not. It is here, five 
 rupees.' 
 
 Hoshyar looked at the little pile with a queer expression,
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 141 
 
 and leaving the plinth came within the reach of a whisper. 
 'That will not serve me to-night,' he said quietly. 'I must 
 have thirty.' 
 
 ' Thirty !' echoed Raheem. ' I have it not.' 
 
 c Thou hast it in the box. See here, brother, thou hast 
 told me always that the money was mine for my salvation. 
 Well, I need it ; I must have it.' He spoke almost care- 
 lessly, as one who has a certainty of succeeding; and in 
 truth he thought so. Once before Raheem had almost 
 emptied the bag to save him from ruin, and he had 
 calculated deliberately on its being emptied again when 
 he had bought Yasmeena her new dress out of office-funds 
 which would have to be replaced at the end of the month. 
 Raheem would not have given a pice for such a purpose, 
 of course; but with detection and disgrace staring his 
 brother in the face it would be different. Besides, the 
 money was his, for his salvation. 'Listen, Raheem,' he 
 went on. summoning up a penitential tone ; but his 
 brother interrupted him swiftly, a sort 'of dread in his 
 dark, hollow eyes. 
 
 ' There is naught in the box now, brother,' he said, with 
 a catch of fear in his voice. 'I have naught but this'; he 
 laid his hand lightly upon the booklet, and its very touch 
 seemed to bring comfort, for he smiled. ' 'Tis my salvation, 
 Hoshyar, for I have given thee my pilgrimage. See, I 
 am making a holder for it. Dost recognise the stuff? 'Tis 
 a bit of the little brocade coat, brother.' 
 
 Hoshyar had caught up the booklet, glanced at it, and 
 now flung it down with a passionate oath. 'Salvation, 
 fool, 'tis perdition !' Then he laughed suddenly, a loud, 
 bitter laugh. ' That is an end,' he said, rising to go. 
 1 1 only waste time here. Good-bye, Raheem ; 'tis well
 
 142 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 thou hast a keepsake of me; thou art not likely to see 
 much of me these seven years to come.' 
 
 'What dost mean, brother?' began the comb-maker 
 fearfully ; but Hoshyar, without another word, turned back 
 to the bazaar. 
 
 "Tis thou that art the fool,' said Yasmeena, with a yawn, 
 after Hoshyar had raged for a quarter of an hour of his 
 ill-luck, of his brother's foolery, of her extravagance. ' Why 
 didst not take the ticket? It must be worth something, 
 surely ?' Then a sudden interest came to her languid eyes, 
 where vice itself seemed weary. 'Seest thou, beloved, I 
 have an idea ! Old Deena the drum-player is for ever 
 talking of second-hand salvation. He hath forty rupees 
 saved for it ; that would leave me ten as commission. He 
 need not know; I can say I got it; we of the bazaar get 
 most things at times in our profession. And the money 
 was thine, for thy salvation, remember.' 
 
 Hoshyar looked at her as a man looks at a venomous 
 snake he has no power to kill. 
 
 ' Lo, Eaboo-j'i/ ' said a trollop of a girl, lounging in with 
 a giggle. 'Thy brother Raheem asks for thee below. 
 'Tis the first time, methinks, he hath entered such a house, 
 for he stands like a child, c'asping a brocaded bag as if 
 there were pests about, and it held camphor.' 
 
 Yasmeena sat up among her quilts and looked at 
 Hoshyar. ' Bid the good creature to the courtyard at the 
 back,' she said in a level voice. 'Thou wilt like to see 
 him alone, doubtless, Hoshyar. And, Merun, bid some 
 man take him a sherbet ; he would be affrighted of a 
 honri. Make it of sandal-essence, girl, and bring it to 
 me to see that it is rightly flavoured. Thou likest 
 not sandal -essence, Hoshyar, 'tis true, but 'tis most
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 143 
 
 refreshing to those who have walked, and thou needst 
 not touch it.' 
 
 Hoshyar's look changed. It was the look now which a 
 bird gives to the snake. 
 
 Raheem was at the station next day in plenty of time, 
 though, rather to his surprise, he had slept later than usual 
 that morning, and slept heavily also ; perhaps because he 
 seemed not to have a care left in the world after Hoshyar 
 had retracted all his reproaches and bidden him go in 
 peace. Peace, what else could remain in a man's heart 
 after that renunciation in the dark, deserted mosque upon 
 the homeward way, which had left Raheem's conscience 
 clear at last, left him without a wedding garment, and yet 
 content? And now, with his ticket to the junction duly 
 snipped, his bundle in one hand and the other assuring 
 itself of the booklet's safety in the brocade bag, he passed 
 down the platform in the rear of the rush from the waiting- 
 shed, looking diffidently for a seat in the close-packed 
 carriages, which with their iron bars and struggling occu- 
 pants looked like cages of wild beasts. 
 
 'Here, neighbour Hajji, here !' cried a cracked, familiar 
 voice full of elation, full of importance. ' Now that demon 
 of a drum hath gone there is room for a saint or two. He 
 is Hajji already, my masters, and will be a good companion. 
 But 'tis done cheaper nowadays, and I, I swear, have it 
 cheaper than ye all. How much, is a secret ; but the Lord 
 kept his eye on old Ueena.' So he went on boastfully, 
 till even his voice was drowned in the great shout which 
 went up as the train moved on. He was back on his own 
 good fortune, however, when the hundred and fifty and 
 odd passengers in their carriage, separated into scores by
 
 144 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 iron bars, had subsided into a mere babel of speaking voices. 
 'No cover, say you?' he replied resentfully to a captious 
 criticism on his ticket. 'What good is a cover? Dew is 
 pretty, but it don't quench thirst; so I, being a pilgrim, 
 drink plain water. My ticket will take me as far as thine.' 
 
 Raheem, crouched up between the drum-player and a 
 fat butcher, heard vaguely, and fingered the outline of his 
 treasure in its bag of brocade, feeling glad he had so 
 honoured it; for it took him further than Mecca, further 
 than this world. The Gates of Pearl were set ajar for him, 
 and he could see through them to the glory and glitter of 
 Paradise. And so, after a rush through a long stretch of 
 desert sand, the train slackened, rousing him from a dream. 
 This must be the junction, and he must take out the other 
 ticket ; but not while a score of folk were struggling over 
 him in their rush to be out first. He was out last, of 
 course, and had barely time to snatch the booklet from its 
 bag, ere an official warned him to hurry up. So panting, 
 confused, his bundle in one hand, his treasure in the other, 
 he sped over the bridge to the next platform. 
 
 ' Tickets, tickets, all tickets ! ' came another alien voice, 
 and he paused to obey, setting his bundle on the ground 
 in order to have both hands for his task. But the opening 
 of the cover was to him as the closing of the Book of Life ; 
 for it was empty. 
 
 'Pass on, pass on!' came the not unkindly voice of 
 command once more. 'Out of the way, you there, and 
 don't stand like a fool. You've dropped it likely; run 
 back and see; there 's time yet.' 
 
 So over the bridge again went Raheem, in frantic hope, 
 back on his steps again in frantic despair. ' I had it, 
 Huzoor, indeed I had it 1 Here is the cover 1'
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 145 
 
 The ticket-collector shook his head, and Raheem, with 
 a dazed look, turned away quietly. 
 
 ' Trra ! ' came the voice of the drum-player sententiously 
 and safely from the window of a carriage. ' He hath lost 
 the inside ; that comes of a cover. Well, well, prayers are 
 over; up with the carpet! But he is Hajji already, my 
 masters, so 'tis not as though it were one of us sinners.' 
 
 ' Keep thy sins to thyself, chatterer/ retorted his next 
 neighbour tartly, as the train moved on. ' We be virtuous 
 men enough.' 
 
 'If you haven't money to go on, you must go back. 
 The booking-office is over there, and the up-mail will be 
 in in a few hours.' 
 
 This official view of the question, given by the authorities 
 as they gathered round the disappointed pilgrim, was sim- 
 plicity itself, even to Raheem. He never thought of con- 
 necting his ticketless cover with Deena's coverless ticket. 
 The fact that his chance was gone absorbed him utterly ; 
 he had lost salvation, for the very thought of taking back 
 his gift to Hoshyar was impossible to him. That was the 
 outcome of it all. So he sat patiently waiting for his train 
 to come in ; sat patiently, after he had found a place in it, 
 waiting for it to go on, so absolutely absorbed in his loss 
 that he did not even hear his neighbours' comments on 
 the delay. 
 
 ' Line clear at last ! ' said the guard joyfully to the driver 
 as he came out of the telegraph- orifice, where but one instant 
 before the welcome signal had echoed. ' Steam away all 
 you know, sonny, and make up lost time. I promised my 
 girl to be punctual ; there 's a hop on at her house.' 
 
 So, with a shriek, they were off for a twenty-mile scamper 
 across the desert ; out, with a bump over the points, out 
 
 K
 
 146 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 with a whistle past the last signal, out with a flash by the 
 telegraph-posts. But something else was flashing by the 
 posts also; for a message came clicking into the station 
 they had left not a minute ago, 'Mistake line blocked 
 down mail} 
 
 ' My God ! ' said the station-master in a thick voice, 
 standing up blindly. He was an old Mutiny man, but he 
 was white as a sheet. 
 
 ' It isn't our fault, father,' began his son, a slim young 
 fellow, showing mixed blood. 
 
 ' D n it all, sir ! ' shouted the other furiously, ' what does 
 it matter whose fault it is ? What 's to be done ? ' 
 
 Nothing could be done, save to telegraph back quick as 
 kind nature could carry it : ' Line blocked up-mail also' 
 Fateful words ! The line blocked both ways, and not a 
 signal for twenty miles ! Half an hour of warning at the 
 least, and nothing to be done; nothing save to accept 
 the disaster ! 
 
 ' Bring up the relief-engine sharp, Smith,' said the Traffic 
 Superintendent at the terminus, when, ere a minute was 
 past, the hopeless news reached him. ' Graham, run over 
 for Dr. Westlake for Harrison, too, if he 's there ; splints, 
 bandages, dressers, and all that. Davies, wire back to the 
 other end to send what they can from their reserve.' 
 
 And so, swiftly as hands and brains could compass it, 
 two more engines fled shrieking into the growing dusk of 
 evening behind those two, the down -mail and the up- 
 mail, coming nearer and nearer to each other on the single 
 line. 
 
 ' Twenty minutes since they started, about,' said one 
 man, who was standing with a watch in his hand, in 
 curiously quiet tones. ' It must be soon now ; and there
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 147 
 
 is a curve about the middle. I hope to God there is no 
 friend of mine in either ! ' 
 
 4 Royston 's in the down,' replied another studiously even 
 voice. ' He was going to see his wife. But the firsts are 
 
 well back; it's the thirds, poor devils ' He paused, 
 
 and the others nodded. 
 
 The thirds, doubtless ! And in one of them, far forward, 
 crouched Raheem, staring out into the calm dusk, absorbed 
 in the horror of going back, going back to die before he 
 had saved his own soul ! 
 
 So, suddenly, through and above the rush and the roar 
 and the rattle that he scarcely heard, came a new sound 
 forcing him to listen. It was a quivering, clamorous, 
 insistent whistle. It brought no recognition to his ignor- 
 ance, or to the ignorance of those around him, but far back 
 in the first-class carriages white faces peered out into the 
 gloom, and foreign voices called to each other : * Danger 
 whistle what 's up ? ' Still, it was a strange, disturbing 
 sound with a strange echo. And was that an echo of the 
 rush, and the roar, and the rattle ? Raheem sat up quickly. 
 Was it the end of all things ? Why had they struck him 
 Who Hoshyar ! Then thought ended in a scream of pain. 
 
 ' There is a man caught by the feet under that wheel,' 
 said Dr. Westlake not many minutes after, as he came out 
 of the hideous pile of wreckage all grimed and smirched. 
 4 He is breathing yet, so have him out sharp. We may 
 
 save him, but these others ' He passed on to seek 
 
 work significantly. 
 
 And so Raheem, stunned, and with both feet crushed to 
 a jelly, was dug out ; the only man left alive in the forward 
 third-class carriage of the up-mail. He was still uncon-
 
 148 A TOURIST TICKET 
 
 scious when it came to be his turn for the doctors in the 
 crowded hospital. ' Badly nourished,' said Dr. Westlake, 
 'but it is his only chance. Harrison, the eucalyptus saw- 
 dust, please ; it is a good case for it, and we shall be short 
 of dressings.' 
 
 So two days afterwards Raheem, recovering from a slight 
 concussion of the brain, found himself in a strangely com- 
 fortable bed with a curious hump of a thing over his feet 
 under the coverlet. He did not know that there were no 
 feet there; that they had both been amputated at the 
 ankle, and that he was a cripple for life. And there was 
 no reason why he should find it out, since the sawdust did 
 its work without more ado, much to the doctor's delight, 
 who, as he took Raheem's temperature, talked of first 
 intents and septic dressings to his assistant. In fact, they 
 were both so pleased that it came upon them by surprise 
 one day, when Raheem, with clasped hands, asked when 
 he was to die. 
 
 1 Die ? Rubbish ! ' said Dr. Westlake cheerfully. ' Not 
 from this, at any rate, and we will do what we can for the 
 lungs afterwards.' 
 
 Raheem's face did not lose its anxiety. ' And when, if 
 the Huzoor will say, shall I be able to walk again ? ' As 
 he lay in the comfortable bed, he had been making up his 
 mind to sacrifice all comfort, to leave life behind him, and 
 start on foot for death, with his face towards Mecca. 
 
 'Walk?' echoed the doctor, with a significant look at 
 his assistant. Then he sat down on the edge of the cot, 
 and told the truth. 
 
 Raheem heard it, looking incredulously at the cradle ; 
 and then suddenly he interrupted a platitude about its 
 being better to be a cripple than to die, with an eager
 
 A TOURIST TICKET 149 
 
 question : ' Then the Huzoor means that I shall never be 
 able to walk again ? ' 
 
 The doctor nodded. 
 
 'May God reward the Huzoor for ever and ever,' said 
 Raheem in a whisper, raising both hands in a salute ; and 
 his face was one radiant smile. 
 
 Dr. Westlake looked at his assistant as they passed on to 
 the next cot. ' They are an incomprehensible people,' he 
 said, in rather an injured tone. ' I never expected to hear 
 a man thank me rapturously for cutting off both his feet.' 
 
 He did not know that cripples are specially exempted 
 from the duty of pilgrimage, and that the patient was 
 repeating his version of the text : ' It is better to enter halt 
 into life, than, having two feet, to be cast into hell.'
 
 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 THIS Is one of poor Craddock's many stories which he 
 told me when we were in the wilderness together, engaged 
 like another Moses and Aaron in preparing a way for 
 a Western people across the desert, and dividing its sand 
 waves by a pathway of red-brick ballast edged with steel, 
 in other words, in making the railway on which he after- 
 wards met his death in trying to prevent a survival of past 
 ages from being in the permanent way of civilisation. 
 
 We used to sit at the door of my little tent two 
 Englishmen adrift on a sand sea, and I used to listen 
 while he talked ; for the life he had led made him the best 
 of company, and his combined ignorance and knowledge 
 of the East was a perpetual surprise. Some of his stories 
 were grossly, frankly impossible, but this one, despite its 
 strangeness, I believed unhesitatingly ; as any one would 
 have done who had seen, as I saw, the indescribable 
 world-tarnish which long years of loose living brings to 
 the kindliest face, leave it clear, bright, and eager to a re- 
 juvenescence of love, and pity, and pain. 
 
 The sun had dipped below the rising rim of the great 
 sand-circle whose centre we were, but the sky was still a 
 cloudless expanse of yellow radiance dazzling to the eyes 
 from sheer excess of light. There was nothing far or near 
 to differentiate one part of earth or heaven from another 
 save the thin red line of ridiculous little flags we had been 
 
 150
 
 THE KING'S WELL 151 
 
 planting out during the day; and I remember thinking 
 that I could not for the life of me tell the exact spot 
 where, five minutes before, I had seen the last curved glint 
 of the sun disappear for one bit of horizon seemed to the 
 full as bright as another. 
 
 ' Looks like the yaller bottle in the chemist's shop ; 
 don't it, sir ? ' remarked Craddock cheerfully, ' leastways, 
 as I used to think when I was a boy. Lordy ! Lordy ! 
 boys is is boys, I do assure you. Old Pargiter's shop to 
 our village was over against the public, sir, next the church, 
 an' comin' 'ome o' evenins from the catechism, sir, it 
 seemed Je-rewsalem the Golden. Expect it was the ana- 
 thysts, an' sapphiras, an' rubies, an' them sort o' stones did 
 it, for boys is boys you, see, sir.' He gave an apologetic 
 smear to his corn-coloured moustache as if to wipe away 
 the flavour of his own sentiment the wrist-smear of those 
 whose hands are habitually soiled. 
 
 'It t's like a topaz seen against the light,' I replied, 
 accepting both confidence and excuse with the calm indif- 
 ference which always encouraged Craddock to further 
 indulgence. C I don't think I ever saw it quite so daz- 
 zlingly clear, did you?' 
 
 He paused awhile, and the blue eyes, bloodshot by 
 exposure to unspeakable lights and unspeakable darknesses 
 of all sorts and kinds, grew a trifle absent. 
 
 ' I dunno but what I 'ave, sir ; leastways it looks more 
 light-like from the bottom o' a well. As, savin' your 
 presence, sir, is only nat'ral.' 
 
 'From the bottom of a well?' I echoed. 'When was 
 that, Craddock ? you never told me that yarn.' 
 
 He paused again. ' No, sir. It ain't a pleasing inter- 
 lood, for 'twas in the Mutiny time, sir, w'en we was all mad
 
 152 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 devils, black an* white white an' black ,' and then 
 
 suddenly, as I have said, some past pity and passion and 
 pain seemed to come back upon him with a rush, so that 
 he sat staring into that cloudless sky as if he saw a vision, 
 and his voice came at last half to himself, ' By the Lord as 
 made me, I dunno which was worse, black nor white, white 
 nor black ; yet it was white as did for me, Nathaniel James 
 Craddock, at the bottom o' the King's Well.' Then he 
 was silent again, and I sat silent too, for there never was 
 any use in pumping Craddock. His fund of experiences 
 was too vast for you to be sure of bringing what you 
 wanted to the surface. So, after a time, he began again 
 deviously : 
 
 ' Not as wot it was, so to speak, a well at all, but what 
 they calls, in the lingo, a bawly a thing, you know, sir, 
 with flights o' steps a-leadin' down to the bowels of the 
 yerth right down to the water as maybe a hundred or a 
 hundred and fifty feet below the surface, as the sayin' is, 
 sir. It was just a large, round, black spot o' ink, that was 
 wot the water was, an' standin' on the stone edge you 
 could see right up the stairs to a round yaller spot of 
 Je-rewsalem the Golden. Two spots there were, sir, owin' 
 to their being two flights o' steps, an' many a time as I lay 
 like a rabbit in 'is burrow down by the water, I'd tell 
 myself luck was in there bein' two two whites to one 
 black, yet after all it was white as did the business for me, 
 sir, at the bottom o' the King's bawly' 
 
 'You must have been very young in Mutiny time?' I 
 remarked in casual aid to his lagging confidence. 
 
 'One-and-twenty, sir more by token I come to man's 
 estate, as the sayin' is, at the bottom o' that there well. 
 Lordy ! I can see it now ! A sort o' mist o 1 light from
 
 THE KING'S WELL 153 
 
 Je-rewsalem above a-fadin' away half down the stairs, and 
 leavin' the rest to get darker an' darker to the black spot o' 
 water; but it had a glint o' light on it too that come, God 
 knows how, when the sun was low.' As he spoke I had 
 noticed a curious change in his voice ; a sort of refining 
 process, as if he were going back to a self that was less 
 rough, less common, and the change was still more marked 
 when, after a pause, he began again : ' It was an awful hot 
 year, sir, just a white flame of heat a burning fiery fur- 
 nace ; but there wasn't none of us come through it praisin' 
 an' magnify in' leastways I didn't, but then I was a wild 
 lot. Run away from home, sir ; that is how I came to be 
 in the country, knowing a good bit of the lingo for a 
 youngster. Served my way out before the mast, and then 
 backed my luck. And won it too; for a Rajah fellow 
 paid me to wrestle with his men, and play monkey tricks. 
 Lordy ! I remember the first time I got in grips with the 
 champion, and he stood head down expectin' me to go on 
 buttin' like a goat There wasn't one of them could touch 
 me, sir, but that wasn't no protection when the time came. 
 It 's an odd sort of thing, I do assure you, for a man who 
 knows he could lick every one he sees, to be runnin' like a 
 hare for dear life, hidin' by day an' circumventin' the 
 villages by night ; but that was how it was for three weeks 
 before I come plumb as the sayin' is on the King's 
 Well. It was right in the worst country, and I was foot- 
 sore, and stumblin' like as if I were in liquor with the 
 fever. A queer sort o' place it was as I saw it first in the 
 dawn which come as the dawns had a trick o' doin' in 
 those times a deal too soon for Nathaniel James. It was 
 right in the open in the middle o' a lot o' broken bricks 
 and little mounds o' mud miles and miles of them it had
 
 154 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 seemed to me, footsore an' stumblin'; for the place had 
 been a big city, so I 'm told, sir, in the old times. And 
 now it was nothin' but a plain o' broken brick an' graves, 
 except for a cluster of tall old houses with the usual mud- 
 huts a-crowdin' up round them. And I knew from what 
 I'd heard that the biggest murdering villains o' the lot 
 lived in them houses, poor budmarsh 1 Mohammedans, proud 
 as Lucifer, a-screwing the tails o' the ryots for a livin' 
 though why ryots, sir, is hard to say, for a more peaceable 
 lot o' able-bodied men and women never was. Well, there 
 I was in the worst place I could have chosen, and the 
 dawn comin' sudden all in a blaze. Then, right at my feet 
 I sees the bawly ; just a hole o' broken masonry, an' the 
 steps leading down like a rabbit burrow. They didn't 
 seem to be much used that side furthest from the village 
 among the graves, for the drifted sand was a lying thick on 
 the topmost steps, and I didn't see no footmarks to speak 
 of, only a queer sort o' track that might 'ave bin a man's 
 and mightn't. Anyhow I thought I 'd risk it, seeing as if 
 any one come down the one stair, I could hoof it up the 
 other, an' there 's generally a lot o' little arched recesses at 
 the bottom o' bawlies where I could lie low. So I chanced 
 it. An' Lordy ! wasn't it cool as I hobbled down them 
 vaulted steps. 'Twas a fine place, sir, when all was said 
 an' done. Half a dozen steps or so, and then a landin', as 
 the sayin' is, with a sort o' travellers' rest on either side ; 
 but I went right down to the bottom, so as to see 
 what sort o' trap I 'd got into. An' I found it none so 
 bad, for there wasn't no passage round as there is in 
 most bawlies, but only an arched room on either side my 
 stairs ending sheer in the drop o' ink which filled up a 
 1 bad-living.
 
 THE KING'S WELL 155 
 
 round sort o' well that was vaulted over up in the dark 
 somewhere. So there wasn't no way of getting from one 
 stair to the other but by a leap such as there wasn't one 
 but Nathaniel James in the country-side as could leap it ; 
 an' that would give me time. Still I do assure you, sir, it 
 takes the spunk out of a fellow to go skulkin' round for 
 three weeks with your life in your hand in baggy silk 
 trousers an' a dressin'-gown for I 'd put on what they calls 
 a killit as the Rajah give me for smashing up another 
 Rajah's champion that 's a dress o' state, sir, an' killit or 
 not, it nigh killed me, for it was chock full o' embroidery 
 an' that hot; but beggars mustn't be choosers, and that 
 night I run off from the Palace it was all I could lay hands 
 on. An' did its work too just to give what them surveyor 
 chaps calls the proper contour, as the sayin' is. Anyhow, 
 what with the stain, a deal more knowledge of the lingo 
 than I have now, sir, an' through my being considerable 
 stronger than the only two fellars as caught me napping, 
 here I was in the King's bawly watching them two round 
 spots o' Je-rewsalem like a man in his grave awaitin' the last 
 trump; an' the first pair o' feet I saw on the stairs opposite 
 set me a-tremblin' like a ferreted rabbit, even though I 
 knew that wot with the stairs, an' the drop o' ink, I 'd 'ave 
 a good five minutes' start. But then I heard the jingles 
 on them, sir, and knew it was only a woman from the 
 village comin' down to fill her water-pot. There was a lot 
 o' them come chatterin' and laughin' duiing the day, but 
 always down the further stair. And Lordy ! it was cool 
 after the fiery furnace ! I had a mouthful or two o' corn 
 I'd looted, so when dusk came it seemed to me as if I 
 couldn't move on small blame to me, sir, seein' how cool 
 an' quiet it was, and I so close on done. But just as I was
 
 156 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 a-callin' myself names for bein' lazy come a footfall on my 
 stair. Now you know, sir, them baivlies bein' arched an 
 all that, is awful echoey places, an' I do assure you I made 
 up my mind a man was coming down, slow and deliberate- 
 like. I looked out, an' couldn't see nothing, but there was 
 the footfall just like a procession ; an' then somethin' let 
 loose a bellow, and I felt inclined to cut. But then I 
 thought I 'd wait a bit seein' I was stronger nor most, an' 
 the drop o' ink was handy for a corpse. So I waited until 
 the bellow come again; an' this time bein' close as it 
 were, an' out o' the echo I knew my friend, for I do 
 assure you, sir, it was nothin' but the biggest bull toad you 
 ever see, coming flop, flop down the stair for his evenin' 
 drink. A great green thing with a yaller waistcoat, as sat up 
 on the last step and looked at me quite proud-like. Lordy ! 
 how I laughed! It was the first laugh I'd laughed for 
 three weeks, an' it done me good ; that an' seeing the bull 
 toad go douse into the water like a man, for it set me a- 
 longin' for a swim too, an' when I come out o' that drop o' 
 cold ink I was a new man. Slept like a babby in its cradle, 
 and woke to see through the maze o' arches a woman on 
 the tother side a-rinsin' out her brass pot quite calm-like. 
 She was a-takin' his breakfast to her man in the fields, 
 I expect, for there was a pile o' them flapjacks on a 
 platter beside her. I dunno, sir, if it was the sleep, or the 
 sight o' food and me ravenin' wolves, or just sheer devilry 
 for I was a wild lot but I out o' my rabbit 'utch an' let 
 loose a yell. You may well call 'em bawlies, sir, for I do 
 assure you I felt kind o' queer myself havin' made all that 
 noise. She gave no look, but let loose another yell of her 
 own as she turned tail and ran up them stairs like a lamp- 
 lighter. It seemed to me as if she was callin' on ' the
 
 THE KING : S WELL 157 
 
 King the King,' but I didn't stop to think. Now was my 
 time. I was over the drop o' ink clear on to the second 
 step in my hurry, before she was half way up to Je- 
 rewsalem, an' I was back again to the 'utch with the flap- 
 jacks making ready to run if need be for dear life, when I 
 heard the silver tinkle again an' women's voices. Every 
 word, sir, I could hear through its bein' a bawly, an' I 
 heard her ' he paused sharply, waited a second, and began 
 again 'there was two on them now, disputin' an' half 
 laughin', half cryin'; one was pullin' the other an' tellin' 
 her she was a fool ; there wasn't no King, more 's the pity, 
 and if there was she wasn't afraid seein' he was her bap- 
 dada\ that's ancestors, sir but the tother wouldn't hear 
 of it, an' kept sayin' 'twas well enough for some folk as 
 pretended wisdom, but every one knew the King's footmark 
 on the stair an' had heard his voice after dusk. My friend 
 the bull toad, thinks I, feelin' considerable easier in my 
 mind, for I knew enough o' their ways, you see, sir, to know 
 as there wasn't much chance o' any one else comin' down 
 my stairs if a ghost lived there ; so I listened to the argufy- 
 ing quite interested like. But it wasn't no good the half- 
 laughin' voice hadn't a chance even when it grew sober, 
 and cried shame on bein' frightened at the spirit of the 
 good King, who every day come down to his bawly all 
 alone, so that any pore soul as wanted justice might go 
 down the other stair and tell him what was amiss across 
 the black water with no fear. " If he was only there now 
 instead o' bein' where saints are," I heard her say, " I 'd go 
 down this instant an' tell him to stop it all but there 's no 
 one to listen nowadays no one." An' with that she come 
 tinkling down the steps alone a tall girl, sir but, there 
 'tain't no good describin' her, for I never see her but in half
 
 158 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 light till Well ! she just rinsed out her pot like the rest 
 
 o' them and filled it ; but afore she went she stood so with 
 it on her head on the tother side o' the black water for 
 a moment, an' said quite loud an' bold-like, " Salaatn, 
 AfdMrdJ." 1 
 
 ' I was that wild sort, as I might have given a bellow just 
 to frighten her for the fun o' the thing, but I kept somehow 
 a-thinkin' o' what she had said of the old King a-trailin' 
 down them steps in his royal robes, and listenin' in that 
 baivly to all the pore folk's troubles, an' a-promisin' never 
 to forsake them but to bring justice with him down the 
 stairs to the end o' all things. Not that he was an old 
 King, sir, as I found out afterwards, but a young sort o' 
 saint, as got killed afore his time. You see I heard a lot 
 o' talk from the women as came down in companies, 
 skeery, and just in a mortal hurry to fill their jars and git 
 home because of the girl as said she had heard the King in 
 the daytime. So that it came to me, sir, that I couldn't do 
 better nor lie hidden a day or two and get strong where I 
 was, for there wasn't no manner o' hurry. Like as not I 'd 
 get killed somehow before I got to the river, and I couldn't 
 help anyways, seein' as I couldn't look to get into any o' 
 the places where we was holdin' out against the black devils. 
 An' that evenin', when the old bull toad come down for his 
 swim, I just laughed again quite light-hearted, and says as 
 she said, "Salaam, Maharaj !" 
 
 1 Well, she was the only one as come alone after that ; 
 but come she did, an' every time she come she would stand 
 an' say loud-like, but a bit wistful, " Salaam t Maharaj" 
 
 1 She was a tall girl but there, it ain't no use describing 
 her. 
 
 1 Greeting or peace to the King.
 
 THE KING'S WELL 159 
 
 ' So what with the women coming all together I didn't 
 have much chance o' flap-jacks, and what with the village 
 bein' walled in an' full of them murderin' nobility, I wasn't, 
 so to say, successful in thievin', an' at last I see it was 
 time to move on. A bad time, too; for I heard from the 
 women's talk as there was crowds o' sepoys about a-screwin' 
 the pore folk's tails, an' I heard her say to 'em once as it 
 were their fault. "If they wasn't so frightened o' the 
 King," said she, " maybe he 'd come back and give 'em 
 justice." An' that evenin' when she come down she stood 
 so with her arms spread out lookin' up the stair, and said 
 again, bowing down after their fashion, " Salaam^ Mdharaj, 
 your slave waits ! " 
 
 ' There was a pile o' flap-jacks on the platter beside her 
 water-pot, an' maybe it was the sight o' them, and knowin' 
 they would be worth gold to me, or maybe because it was 
 my last time o' askin', or maybe the devil that was in me, 
 but I just out o' my rabbit 'utch, in my baggy silk trousers 
 and dressing-gown in the whole blessed killit, sir and 
 stood quite still on the steps. It was most dark, you see, 
 s-ir, an' the contours was correc', so 'twas no wonder she 
 give a little cry, half glad, half afraid, as she come up from 
 her salaam. I guessed she'd run and leave me the flap- 
 jacks, but she wasn't that sort. A tall girl but there, it 
 ain't no use describin'. Well, afore I could think what to 
 do she was at it ; such a tale o' wrong, sir ; not about her- 
 self, though she was one of those pore souls as is born 
 widows ] but about Lord knows what of the people. An' I 
 listened. Did you ever listen, sir, to a woman's voice just 
 chock full o' confidence in your bein' a good sort ? Well, 
 I did ; an' I dunno how 'twas, sir, but the confidence was 
 catchin' I was a reckless, bold chap, you see, an' I knew
 
 160 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 she had grit, so the next moment I was over that circle o' 
 black water and beside her. She give another little cry, 
 but, my Lord ! she had grit, for she drew back quick against 
 the wall and thrust out her hands to keep me off. 
 
 ' " The King ! the King ! " she said, " I thought you was 
 the King ! " 
 
 ' An" with that I caught her by the hands. " I 'm not 
 the King," says I, " but don't you be afraid, I 'm only a 
 pore man as won't hurt you." 
 
 '"I'm not afraid," she says, tryin' to make believe. 
 "You come down the King's stairs o" justice," she said, 
 "an' that's enough." 
 
 'Then somehow, I dunno how it was, sir, but all in a 
 moment it come home to me that I 'd go my whole pile on 
 her, an' I drop her hands an' I says 
 
 '"Yes ! I come down the King's stairs, and I'll be a 
 King to you for justice if you '11 be a Queen to me." 
 
 ' And by God ! sir, she was. 
 
 'So there we were, lookin' into each other's eyes and 
 sayin' nothin', till she gave a queer little laugh. 
 
 '"Why," she says, "you're a white man!" and with 
 that she lay her finger quick and confident on my wrist ; 
 an' sure enough, what with the swim and the dark it were 
 white indeed white an' shivery too, with the touch some- 
 how, so that I couldn't but keep her hand so and say 
 
 ' " Yes, my dear, I 'm white and you 're black ; I 'm a 
 man and you're a woman, but it shan't make no odds. 
 I 'm King and you 're Queen in this here bawl}', and there 
 shan't be nothing but justice atween us, so help me God! " 
 
 ' An' there wasn't, sir. No ! though we went our whole 
 pile on each other, I do assure you, sir.' 
 
 The assurance was needless; one look at his face was
 
 THE KING'S WELL 161 
 
 enough that world-worn face with its bloodshot eyes, fixed 
 on the dazzling glory of the sky as if they saw a vision. 
 
 1 1 used to see her first against Je-rewsalem,' he went on 
 in a lower tone. ' Then I could hear her come down the 
 stairs ever so soft to stand close to the water's edge and 
 cry, "Salaam, Maharaj" for she called me that, just for 
 fun, you see, sir. An' there weren't much wistfulness in 
 her voice, sir, mostly laughter, an' somethin' better nor 
 laughter, when I come leapin' across that drop o' ink to 
 stand beside her for a little, an' tell her what folks say to 
 each other when they Ve set their whole pile on each other, 
 you know, sir. For she wouldn't never come down the 
 King's stairs, sayin' it was unlucky an' what not. Excuses, 
 sir, but I understood 'em, and I didn't want her, for you see 
 it was justice between us I 'd sworn, and I was a wild lot. 
 She had told her father a blind old Brahman, sir, awful 
 holy, and nigh bedridden too and he sent word to say, 
 stop where I was. The villagers wouldn't venture down 
 the stairs either, and, if they did, wouldn't harm me, being, 
 as I say, sir, as peaceable a lot o' able-bodied men as ever 
 was. But the maraudin', murderin' crew in the big hawelies 
 that 's houses, sir was harbouring those mutinous devils 
 of Jack Pandies, and playin' high old Tommy for miles 
 round, so I 'd better lie low till justice came ; as it 'd sure 
 to do at last, seein' that the Lord was King. They talks a 
 sight, sir, about the heathen and their ignorance, but I do 
 assure you she knew a deal more nor me, what with being 
 of a king's family an' havin' a bedridden saint of a Brah- 
 man for a father. An' they mayn't know much book- 
 learnin' p'r'aps, but some of 'em knows how to make a 
 man put his whole pile on them. And she had grit, my 
 Lord ! she had grit !
 
 162 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 ' Yet there was a catch in her breath that evenin' when 
 I was nigh mad with fear lest she had come to harm 
 because it was so late, and hearing her footfall on the stair 
 I leapt over, and nearly fell back into the ink-pot through 
 seein' her in a man's dress. 
 
 1 " I 'd rather you didn't come if there 's danger," said I 
 quite sharp like, when she told me the sepoys was setting 
 watch because folk said the white soldiers were a-coming. 
 " Don't ! I can't stand it here in the dark, idle, thinkin' o' 
 you God knows how. I '11 fend for myself quite well." 
 
 1 An' with that she laughed low with the little catch in 
 her breath still, and come a bit closer so as I could slip 
 my arm round her a little ; an' by that I knew 'twas more 
 danger than she let on for she was not that sort. 
 
 ' " Now don't you come," says I, as I might be the 
 King himself givin' orders, " I won't have it. If the soldiers 
 is comin', they '11 bring justice, an' if not a little starvin' 
 won't hurt me, for I 'm gettin' quite strong again." An' so 
 I was, sir, what with the rest and the food an' the happi- 
 ness. For I do assure you, sir, on my solemn oath, that I 
 was happy at the bottom o' that King's bawley. Happy ? 
 By the Lord ! sir, 'twas enough to make a man happy to 
 see the look she gave me, as much as to say I was strong 
 enough and everything enough for her ; for though it was 
 nigh dark I could see her face from its bein' so close to 
 mine she bein' a tall girl but there, it ain't no use 
 describin'. There don't seem much to say, sir, when it 
 comes to lookin' at each other that way, an" so we stood 
 silent a bit, till sudden I hear the old bull toad at his jinks 
 again, and partly to ease off the sort o' burstin' feelin' at 
 my heart, I cries with a laugh, "There 's the King !" 
 
 ' But she just lays her head down, pugree an' all, on my
 
 THE KING'S WELL 163 
 
 shoulder, and says with a sob, " No, here 's the King. The 
 King as I come to for justice." ' 
 
 He paused for so long, that something of the excitement 
 which had been thrilling in his tones seemed to pass into 
 my mind, and I felt almost a shock when he went on quite 
 calmly 
 
 ' Well, it was arranged that she wasn't to come back for 
 three days onless somethin' turned up. I would have it 
 so, an' she give in at last. It was mortal dull without her, 
 and I made up my mind when I see her again to tell her 
 I 'd back my luck once more and fight my way safe some- 
 how. Then when it was over I 'd come back for her ; for 
 it didn't seem it could go against me as I sat down by the 
 drop o' ink a-lookin' up to Je-rewsalem over the way, and 
 a-wonderin' when I should see her on the top step a-comin' 
 for justice to her King. 
 
 ' Well, she come at last. It were the second day, I 
 think, sir, and it took me all of a sudden, for, owin' to its 
 bein' a bawly in the bowels of the yerth you couldn't hear 
 nothin' of what was goin' on up top. I was sittin' lookin' 
 over the way when I hear a noise behind an' a voice, 
 "MaMr&j! Mahdraj!" 
 
 ' It was she, sir, down the King's steps in the man's 
 dress, an' behind her, my God ! not black devils but white 
 ones with red coats an' set bayonets! " Maharaj ! 
 Mdharaj! Justice ! Justice ! " 
 
 1 1 was out, sir, tearing up to meet her in a second, 
 shoutin' in English to hold hard that she was a woman ; 
 but them cursed bawly echoes mixed it all up, an' the 
 cursed baggy trousers and things didn't give me no chance 
 of a hearin' through it 's bein' half dark 
 
 ' " Mdharaj I Mdharaj ! "
 
 164 THE KING'S WELL 
 
 ' I heard it plain enough, God knows. I hear it now 
 sometimes, sir, an' I see her face as I saw it for the only 
 time in the light afore I fell over her dead body a-lying on 
 the steps half-way down the stairs o' justice. 
 
 ' They told me after, as I had finished the cry for her 
 many and many a time whilst I lay in 'orspital for they 'd 
 struck me playful-like before they found out I was white, 
 an' I took mortal bad ; but there wasn't much use in justice 
 then for none o' us. An' I never could tell quite how it 
 happened, for when I went back the village was just bricks, 
 and the corpses lyin' about thick, unburied. They had 
 had a hard fight as they told me, had the Tommies, an' 
 bein' fresh from Cawnpore, was keen as was nat'ral an' 
 she was in man's clothes, you see, when she come flyin' 
 down the steps o' justice calling for the King.' 
 
 He sat silent, looking out to the now darkening sky 
 where the light had faded save in the widening rays spread- 
 ing out from the grave of the sun. And down one of 
 them, as down a golden staircase, I seemed to see a flying 
 figure with outstretched arms pass to Jerusalem the Golden 
 with the cry c Maharaj ! M&haraj ! ' 
 
 But Craddock was already clearing his throat sugges- 
 tively for the usual glass of whisky and water ; yet ere he 
 drank it his eyes wandered absently, helplessly, to the 
 horizon, and I heard him mutter to himself 
 
 'An' so 'twas white, not black, as did for Nathaniel 
 James Craddock at the bottom o' the King's Well.' 
 
 And as I looked at him, drink-sodden and reckless, I 
 understood that when the time came he too would have 
 the right to pass down the King's stair seeking justice 
 and finding it.
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 UMA-DEVI was sitting on a heap of yellow wheat, which 
 showed golden against the silvery surface of her husband's 
 threshing-floor. She was a tall woman, of about five-and- 
 twenty, with a fair, fine-cut face, set in a perfect oval above 
 the massive column of her throat. She was a Brahmani of 
 the Suruswutee tribe in other words, a member of perhaps, 
 the most ancient Aryan colony in India, which long ages 
 back settled down to cultivate the Hurreana, or 'green 
 country'; so called, no doubt, before its sacred river, the 
 Suruswutee, lost itself in the dry deserts west of Delhi ; a 
 member, therefore, of a community older than Brahmanism 
 itself, which clings oddly to older faiths, older ways, and 
 older gods. So Uma-devi, who was on the rack of that 
 jealousy which comes to most women, whether they be 
 ignorant or cultured, had the advantage over most of the 
 latter : she could look back through the ages to a more 
 inspiring and stimulating progenitrix than Mother Eve. 
 For, despite the pharisaical little hymn of Western infancy 
 bidding us thank goodness for our birth and inheritance 
 of knowledge, one can scarcely be grateful for a typical 
 woman simpering over an apple, or subsequently sighing 
 over the difficulties of dress. The fact being that our 
 story of Creation only begins when humanity, fairly started 
 on the Rake's Progress, felt the necessity for bolstering up 
 its self-respect by the theory of original sin. 
 
 165
 
 166 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 But this woman could dimly, through the numb pain of 
 her heart, feel the influence of a nobler Earth-mother in 
 Uma Himavutee Uma her namesake Uma of the Hima- 
 layas, birthplace of all sacred things Uma of the sunny 
 yet snowy peaks, emblem at once of perfect wifehood, 
 motherhood, and that mystical virginity which, in Eve- 
 ridden faiths, finds its worship in Mariolatry. 
 
 That she could even dimly recognise the beauty of this 
 conception came, partly from the simple yet ascetic teach- 
 ings of her race, partly because there are some natures, 
 East and West, which turn instinctively to Uma Himavutee, 
 and this woman among yellow corn was of that goodly 
 company. 
 
 Yet a sharp throb of sheer animal jealousy the jealousy 
 which in most civilised communities is considered a virtue 
 when sanctified by the bonds of matrimony seemed to 
 tear her heart as her hands paused in her patient darning 
 of gold-coloured silk on dull madder-red stuff, and her 
 eyes sought the figure of a man outlined against the dull 
 red horizon. 
 
 It was Shiv-deo, her husband, returning from his work 
 in the fields. 
 
 She folded up her work methodically, leaving the needle 
 with its pennant of floss still twined deftly in and out of 
 the threads as a mark to show where to take up the 
 appointed pattern once more. For Uma-devi's work was 
 quaintly illustrative of her life, being done from the back 
 of the stuff and going on laboriously, conscientiously 
 trustfully, without reference to the unseen golden diaper 
 slowly growing to beauty on the other side of the cloth. 
 That remained as a reward to tired eyes and fingers when 
 the toil was over, and the time came to piece the whole
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 167 
 
 web into a garment a wedding veil, perchance, for her 
 daughter, had she had one. But Uma was childless. 
 
 Yet there was no reproach, no discontent in her hus- 
 band's fine beardless face as he came up to her; for he 
 happened despite the barbarous marriage customs of his 
 race to love his wife as she loved him. 
 
 They were a handsome pair truly, much of an age, tall, 
 strong, yet of a type as refined-looking as any in the world. 
 At their feet lay the heaps of wheat ; beyond them, around 
 them, that limitless plain which once seen holds the 
 imagination captive for ever, whether the recollection be 
 of a sea of corn, or, as now, of stretches of brown earth 
 bare of all save the dead sources of a gathered harvest. 
 To one side, a mile or so away, the piled mud village was 
 girdled by a golden haze of dust which sprang from the 
 feet of the homing cattle. 
 
 ' I saw one with thee but now,' he said, as, half-mechani- 
 cally, he stooped to gather up a handful of the wheat and 
 test it between finger and thumb. ' Gossip Radha by her 
 bulk and by thy face, wife. What new crime hath the 
 village committed? what new calamity befallen the part- 
 owners? Sure, even her tongue could say nought against 
 the harvest !' 
 
 'Nought ! thanks be to the Lord !' replied Uma briefly. 
 ' Now, since thou hast come to watch, I will go bring the 
 water and see Baba-jee hath his dinner. I will return ere 
 long and set thee free.' 
 
 ' Thou hast a busy life,' he said suddenly, as if the fact 
 struck him newly. 'There are too few of us for the 
 work.' 
 
 The woman turned from him suddenly to look out to 
 the horizon beyond the level fields,
 
 168 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 ' Ay ! there are too few of us,' she echoed with an effort, 
 ' but I will be back ere the light goes.' 
 
 Too few ! Yes, too few. She had known that for some 
 time ; and if it were so in their youth and strength, what 
 would it be in the old age which must come upon them 
 as it had upon the Baba-jee y who, as she passed in to the 
 wide courtyard in order to fetch the big brazen water- 
 vessel, nodded kindly, asking where his son had lingered. 
 
 'He watches the corn-heaps till I return. It must be 
 so, since there are so few of us.' 
 
 The nod changed to a shake, and the cheerful old voice 
 trembled a little over the echo. 
 
 ' Ay ! there are few of us.' 
 
 All the way down to the shallow tank, set, as it were, 
 in a crackle-edge of a sun-baked mud, the phrase re-echoed 
 again and again in Uma-devi's brain till it seemed written 
 large through her own eyes in the faces of the village 
 women passing to and fro with their water-pots. They 
 knew it also; they said it to themselves, though as yet 
 none had dared save Mai Radha, with her cowardly 
 hints to say to her that the time had come when the few 
 ought to be made more. Ah ! if Shiv-deo's younger 
 brother had not died before his child-wife was of age to 
 be brought home, this need not have been. Though, even 
 then, a virtuous woman for her husband's sake ought 
 
 Uma-devi, down by the water-edge, as if to escape from 
 her own thoughts, turned hastily to spread the corner of 
 her veil over the wide mouth of the brazen pot, and with 
 a smaller cup began to ladle the muddy water on to 
 the strainer. But the thought was passionate, insistent. 
 Ought ! What was the use of prating about ought ? She 
 could not, she would not let Shivo take another woman
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 169 
 
 by the hand. How could they ask her, still young, still 
 beautiful, still beloved, to give him another bride ? Why, 
 it would be her part to lift the veil from the new 
 beauty, as she lifted it from the now brimming water-pot 
 so 
 
 Uma Himavutee! what did she see? Her own face 
 reflected in the brass-ringed water, as in a mirror set in a 
 golden frame ! Clear as in any mirror her own beauty 
 the lips Shivo had kissed the eyes which held him so 
 dear ; all, all, unchanged. Ah ! but it was impossible ! 
 That was what the pious old folk preached what the 
 pious young folk pretended. She poised the brazen vessel 
 on her head, telling herself passionately it was impossible. 
 Yet the sight of the wide courtyard, empty save for Baba-jee 
 creeping about to feed the milch kine and do what he could 
 of woman's work, revived that refrain of self-reproach, 
 'There are too few of us.' Shivo himself had said it for 
 the first time, it is true, but would it be the last ? Where- 
 fore? since it was true. She set down the water pot and 
 began to rekindle the ashes on the hearth, thinking stupidly 
 of that reflection of her own face. But water was like a 
 man's heart; it could hold more faces than one. 
 
 ' Ari, hail sister,' called Mai Radha, pausing at the open 
 doorway to look in and see the house-mistress clapping 
 unleavened bread between her palms with the hot haste 
 of one hard pressed for time. 'Thou hast no rest; but 
 one woman is lost in these courts. I mind when thy 
 mother-in-law lived and there were young things growing 
 up in each corner. That is as it should be.' 
 
 A slow flush darkened Uma's face. ' Young things come 
 quick enough when folks will,' she retorted passionately. 
 ' Give me but a year's grace, gossip, and I, Uma-devi, will
 
 170 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 fill the yard too if I wish it filled. Ay! and without 
 asking thy help either.' 
 
 It was intolerable that this woman with her yearly, 
 endless babies should come and crow over the childless 
 hearth. Yet she was right; and again the old sickening 
 sense of failure replaced the flash of indignant forgetfulness. 
 
 ' Heed not my food, daughter,' came the cheerful, con- 
 tented old voice. ' I can cook mine own, and Shivo must 
 need his after the day's toil. If thou take it to him at 
 the threshing-floor 'twill save time ; when hands are few 
 the minutes are as jewels, and it grows dark already. Thou 
 wilt need a cresset for safety from the snakes.' 
 
 Once more the woman winced. That was true also; 
 yet had she been doing her duty and bringing sons to the 
 hearth it would not have been so, for the glory of coming 
 motherhood would have driven the serpents from her path. 1 
 
 She paused at the doorstep to give a backward glance, 
 to see the old man already at his woman's work, and her 
 heart smote her again. Was it seemly work for the most 
 learned man in the village who had taught his son to be 
 so good, so kind ? Yet Shivo of himself would never say 
 the word, neither would the old man. That was the worst 
 of it ; for it would have been easier to have kicked against 
 the pricks. 
 
 She passed swiftly to the fields, the brass platter glitter- 
 ing under the flicker of the cresset and piled with dough 
 cakes and a green leaf of curds poised gracefully on her 
 right palm, the brass lotah of drinking-water hanging from 
 her left hand, the heavy folds of her gold and madder 
 draperies swaying as she walked. It was not yet quite 
 dark. A streak of red light lingered in the horizon, though 
 1 A common belief in India,
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 171 
 
 overhead the stars began to twinkle, matched in the dim 
 stretch of shadowy plain by the twinkling lights showing 
 one by one from the threshing-floors. But Shiv-deo's was 
 still dark, because there had been no one to bring him 
 a lamp. She gave an angry laugh, set her teeth and 
 stepped quicker. If it came to that, she had better speak 
 at once ; speak now to-night before Mai Radha or some 
 one else had a chance speak out in the open where there 
 were no spies to see to hear ! 
 
 It was a clear night, she thought, for sure, and, despite 
 the red warning, giving promise of a clear dawn. One of 
 those dawns, may be, when, like a pearl-edged cloud, the far- 
 distant Himalayas would hang on the northern horizon 
 during the brief twilight and vanish before the glare of day. 
 Ail Mai Uma must be cold up there in the snows ! 
 
 And Shivo must be hungry by this time; watching, 
 perhaps, the twinkling light she carried come nearer and 
 nearer. 
 
 The thought pleased her, soothing her simple heart, and 
 the placid routine of her life came to aid her as she set 
 the platter before her husband reverently with the signs 
 of worship she would have yielded a god. Were they not, 
 she and Shivo, indissolubly joined together for this world 
 and the next? Was not a good woman redemption's 
 source to her husband? Baba-jee had read that many 
 times from his old books. So she felt no degradation as 
 she set the water silently by Shivo's right hand, scooped a 
 hollow in the yellow wheat for the flickering cresset, and 
 then drew apart into the shadows, leaving the man alone 
 to perform the ritual in that little circle of light. He was 
 her husband ; that was enough. 
 
 With her chin upon both her hands she crouched on
 
 172 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 another pile of corn and watched him with sad eyes. Far 
 and near all was soft, silent darkness save for those twin- 
 kling stars shining in heaven and matched on earth. Far 
 and near familiar peace, familiar certainty. Even that 
 pain at her heart, Had not others felt it and set it aside ? 
 The calm endurance of her world, its disregard of pain, 
 seemed to change her own smart to a dull ache, as her eyes 
 followed every movement of the man who loved her. 
 
 ' Thou art silent, wife,' he said, kind wonder in his tone, 
 when, the need for silence being over, she still sat without 
 a word. 
 
 That roused her. Silent ! yea ! silent for too long. 
 
 She rose suddenly and stood before him, tall and straight 
 in the circle of light. Then her voice came clear without 
 a tremble 
 
 ' There are too few of us in the house, husband. We 
 must have more. We must have young hands when ours 
 are old.' 
 
 He stood up in his turn stretching his hands towards 
 her. 
 
 ' Uma ! say not so,' he faltered, ' I want no more.' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 1 The fields want them ; and even thou ' Then her 
 
 calm broke, dissolved, disappeared, like a child's sand 
 barrier before the tide. She flung her arms skyward and 
 her voice came like a cry 
 
 ' Ask her ask thy sister let her do all. I cannot. 
 And she she must come from afar, Shivo, from far ! Not 
 from here lest Mai Radha ' 
 
 She broke off, turned and flung herself face down in 
 the corn silently, clutching at it with her hand. 
 
 Shiv-deo stood looking out over the shadowy fields.
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 173 
 
 'They need them surely,' he said softly after a time, 
 ' and my father has a right ' 
 
 He paused, stooped, and laid a timid touch on the 
 woman's shoulder. 
 
 ' Yea ! she shall come from far, wife, from far. 
 
 Then there was silence, far and near. 
 
 ii 
 
 There was no lack of life now in the wide courtyards, 
 though the year claimed by Uma's pride had scarcely gone 
 by. And there was more to come ere the sunset, if the 
 gossips said sooth as they passed in and out, setting the 
 iron knife (suspended on a string above the inner door) 
 a-swinging as they elbowed it aside. From within came 
 a babel of voices, striving to speak softly, and so sinking 
 into a sort of sibilant hiss, broken by one querulous cry 
 of intermittent complaint. Without, in the bigger court- 
 yard, was a cackle and clamour, joyfully excited, round a 
 platter of sugar-drops set for due refreshment of the neigh- 
 bours. It would be a boy, for sure, they said, the omens 
 being all propitious and Purm-eshwar^ well aware of the 
 worthiness of the household. But, good lack ! what ways 
 foreign women had ! There was the girl's mother, dis- 
 regarding this old custom, performing that new mummery 
 as if there were no canon of right and wrong; yet they 
 were those town women of the race, doubtless of the 
 same race ! It was passing strange ; nevertheless Uma 
 herself did bravely, having always been of the wise sort. 
 She had given the word back keenly but now to Mai 
 Radha, who, as usual, had her pestle in the mortar, and 
 1 The Universal God.
 
 174 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 must needs join in the strange woman's hints that the 
 first wife was better away from the sufferer's sight. Pura- 
 mesh I what an idea ! She had spoken sharp and fair, as 
 was right, seeing that it was hard above the common on 
 Uma so young, so handsome, so well-beloved ! Many a 
 pious one in her place, with no mother-in-law to deal 
 with only two soft-hearted, soft-tongued men would 
 have closed the door on another wedding yet a while, 
 and bided on Providence longer. Small blame either. 
 It was not ten years since those two had come together ; 
 while as for affection 
 
 The rush of words slackened as the object of it set the 
 swinging knife aside, and came forward to see that nought 
 was lacking to the hospitality of the house. With those 
 strange women within, lording it over all by virtue of their 
 relationship to the expectant mother, it behoved her honour 
 to see that there was no possible ground for complaint. 
 It was a year since Uma had flung herself face down upon 
 the wheat, and now the yellow corn once more lay in heaps 
 upon the white threshing-floor. Another harvest had been 
 sown and watered and reaped; but Uma was waiting for 
 hers. And her mind was in a tumult of jealous fear. 
 Shivo, with all his goodness, his kindness to her, could 
 scarcely help loving the mother of his child better than 
 the woman who had failed to bring him one. How could 
 she take that other woman's son in her arms and hold it 
 up for the father's first look ? Yet that would be her part. 
 
 The strain of the thought showed in her face as she 
 moved about seeing to this and that, speaking to those 
 other women serenely, cheerfully. Her pride ensured so 
 much. 
 
 Within, the coming grandmother heaved a very purpose
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 175 
 
 ful sigh of relief at her absence. The patient would be 
 better now that those glowering eyes were away. Whereat 
 Mai Radha, the time-server, nodded her head sagely; but 
 the girlish voice from the bed, set round with lamps and 
 flowers, rose in fretful denial. 
 
 ' Hold thy peace, mother. Thou canst not understand, 
 being of the town. It is different here in the village.' 
 
 The mother giggled, nudging her neighbour. ' Nine to 
 credit, ten to debit ! That 's true of a first wife, town and 
 country. But think as thou wilt, honey ! Trust me to see 
 she throws no evil eye on thee or the child. She shall 
 not even see it till the fateful days be over.' 
 
 The village midwife, an old crone sitting smoking a pipe 
 at the foot of the bed, laughed. 
 
 1 Thou art out there, mother ! 'Tis her part, her right, 
 to show the babe to its father. That is old fashion, and 
 we hold to it.' 
 
 ' Show it to its father ! Good lack ! Heard one ever 
 the like,' shrilled the indignant grandmother to be. 'Why, 
 with us he must not see it for days. Is it not so, 
 friends ? ' 
 
 The town-bred contingent clamoured shocked assent; 
 the midwife and her cronies stood firm. Uma, appealed 
 to by a deputation, met the quarrel coldly. 
 
 ' I care not,' she said ; ' settle it as you please. I am 
 ready to hold the child or not.' 
 
 So a compromise was effected between the disputants 
 within, before the beating of brass trays announced the 
 happy birth of a son, and they came trooping into the 
 outer court full of words and explanations. But Uma 
 heard nothing and saw nothing except the crying frog-like 
 morsel of humanity they thrust into her unwilling arms.
 
 i;6 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 So that was Shivo's child ! How ugly, and what an ill- 
 tempered little thing ! Suddenly the gurgling cry ceased, 
 as instinctively she folded her veil about the struggling, 
 naked limbs. 
 
 ' So ! So ! ' cried the gossips, pushing and pulling joy- 
 fully, excitedly. ' Yonder is the master ! All is ready.' 
 
 She set her teeth for the ordeal and let herself be thrust 
 towards Shivo, who was seated by the door, his back towards 
 her. She had not seen him since the advent of the gossips 
 at dawn had driven the men-kind from the homestead. 
 And now the sun was setting redly as on that evening a 
 year ago when she had told him they were too few for 
 the house. Well, there were more now. And this was 
 the worst. Now she was to see love grow to his face foi 
 the child which was not hers, knowing that love for its 
 mother must grow also unseen in his heart. 
 
 ' So ! So ! ' cried the busy, unsympathetic voices intent 
 on their own plans. ' Hold the child so, sister, above his 
 shoulders, and bid him take his first look at a son.' 
 
 The old dogged determination to leave nothing undone 
 which should be done strengthened her to raise the baby 
 as she was bid, stoop with it over Shivo's shoulder and say, 
 almost coldly 
 
 ' I bring thee thy son, husband. Look on it, and take 
 its image to thine heart.' 
 
 Then she gave a quick, incredulous cry; for, as she 
 stooped, she saw her own face reflected in the brass-ringed 
 mirror formed by the wide mouth of the brimming water- 
 pot, which was set on the floor before Shiv-deo ! 
 
 ' Higher ! sister ! higher,' cried the groups, ' let him see 
 the babe in the water for luck's sake. So ! Ari ! father, is 
 not that a son indeed ! Wah ! the sweetest doll.'
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 177 
 
 Sweet enough, in truth, looked the reflection of that 
 tiny face where her own had been. She let it stay there 
 for a second or two ; then a sudden curiosity came to her 
 and she drew aside almost roughly, still keeping her eyes 
 on the water-mirror. Ah ! there was her husband's face 
 now, with a look in it that she had never seen before the 
 look of fatherhood. 
 
 Without a word she thrust her burden back into other 
 arms, asking impatiently if that were all, or if they needed 
 more of her services. 
 
 ' More indeed,' muttered the grandmother tartly as she 
 disappeared again, intent on sugar and spices, behind the 
 swinging knife. ' Sure some folk had small labour or pains 
 over this day's good work. Lucky for the master that there 
 be other women in the world.' 
 
 Uma looked after her silently, beset by a great im- 
 patience of the noise and the congratulations. She wanted 
 to get away from it all, from those whispers and giggles 
 heard from within, and interrupted every now and then 
 by that new gurgling cry. The excitement was over, the 
 gossips were departing one by one, Shivo and his father were 
 being dragged off to the village square for a pipe of peace 
 and thanksgiving. No one wanted her now ; her part in 
 the house was done, and out yonder in the gathering 
 twilight the heaps of corn were alone, as she was. She 
 could at least see to their safety for a while and have 
 time to remember those faces hers, and the child's, and 
 Shivo's. 
 
 Well ! it was all over now. No wonder they did not 
 need her any more since she had done all yea ! she had 
 done her duty to the uttermost ! 
 
 A sort of passionate resentment at her own virtue filled 
 
 M
 
 178 UMA HIMAVUTEE 
 
 her mind as, wearied out with the physical strain, she lay 
 down to rest upon the yielding yellow wheat. How soft 
 it was, how cool ! She nestled into it, head, hands, feet, 
 gaining a certain consolation from the mere comfort to 
 her tired body. And as she looked out over her husband's 
 fields, the very knowledge that the harvest had been reaped 
 and gathered soothed her; besides, in the years to come 
 there would be other hands for other harvests. That was 
 also as it should be. And yet ? She turned her face down 
 into the wheat. 
 
 ' Shivo ! Shivo ! ' she sobbed into the fruits of the harvest 
 which she had helped to sow and gather. ' Shivo ! Shivo ! ' 
 
 But to her creed marriage had for its object the pre- 
 servation of the hearth fire, not the fire of passion, and 
 the jealousy which is a virtue to the civilised, was a crime 
 to this barbarian. 
 
 So, as she lay half hidden in the harvested corn the 
 thought of the baby's face, and hers, and Shivo's all, 
 all in the water-mirror brought her in a confused half- 
 comprehending way a certain comfort from their very 
 companionship. So, by degrees, the strain passed from 
 mind and body leaving her asleep, with slackened curves, 
 upon the heap of corn. Asleep peacefully until a hand 
 touched her shoulder gently, and in the soft grey dawn 
 she saw her husband standing beside her. 
 
 She rose slowly, drawing her veil closer with a shiver, 
 for the air was chill. 
 
 1 1 have been seeking thee since nightfall, wife,' he said 
 in gentle reproach, with a ring of relief in his voice ; ' I 
 feared I know not what that thou hadst thought me 
 churlish, perhaps, because I did not thank thee for for 
 thy son.'
 
 UMA HIMAVUTEE 179 
 
 His hand sought hers and found it, as they stood side 
 by side looking out over the fields with the eyes of those 
 whose lives are spent in sowing and reaping, looking out 
 over the wide sweep of bare earth and beyond it, on the 
 northern horizon, the dim dawn-lit peaks of the Himalayas. 
 
 ' He favours her in the face, husband,' she said quietly, 
 ' but he hath thy form. That is as it should be, for thou 
 art strong and she is fair.' 
 
 So, as they went homeward through the lightening fields, 
 she a dutiful step behind the man the printing-presses 
 over at the other side of the world were busy, amid flaring 
 gas-jets and the clamour of marvellous machinery, in dis- 
 cussing in a thousand ways the dreary old problems of 
 whether marriage is a failure or not. 
 
 It was not so to Uma-devi.
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR, in the original story, came out of the 
 West. In this tale he came out of the East, and the most 
 match-making mamma might be disposed to forgive him ; 
 partly on account of his youth, partly because he really 
 was not a free agent 
 
 They were cousins of course. In the finest race of the 
 Pan jab possibly of the world cousins have a right to 
 cousins provided the relationship lie through the mother's 
 brother or the father's sister, the converse, for some 
 mysterious reason, being anathema maranatha. 
 
 But Nanuk's mother, wife of big Suchet Singh, head man 
 of Aluwallah village, was sister to Dhyan Singh, the 
 armourer, who plied his trade in the little courtyard hidden 
 right in the heart of the big city. A big man too, high- 
 featured and handsome; high-tempered also as the steel 
 which he inlaid so craftily with gold. For all that, round, 
 podgy Mai Gunga, his wife, ruled him by virtue of a smart- 
 ness unknown to his slower, gentler nature. Not so 
 gentle, however, but that he mourned the degeneracy of 
 these latter piping days of peace. They and the Arms 
 Act had driven him from the manufacture of sword-hilts 
 and helmets, shields and corselets, to that of plaques and 
 inkstands, candlesticks and ash-trays from the means of 
 resistance to the decoration of victorious drawing-rooms. 
 Not that he nourished ill-feeling against those victors. 
 
 ISO
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 181 
 
 They were a brave lot, and since then his people had helped 
 them bravely to keep their winnings. Only it was dull 
 work ; so every now and again Dhyan Singh revenged him- 
 self by making a paper-knife in the form of some blood- 
 thirsty lethal weapon, and put his best work on it, just to 
 keep his hand in. 
 
 Little Pertabi, his daughter, used to sit and watch her 
 father at the tiny forge set in the central sunshine of the 
 yard. It was funny to see the shaving of sheer steel curl 
 up from the graver guided in its flowing curves by nothing 
 but that skilled eye and hand; funnier still to watch the 
 gold wire nestle down so obediently into the groove; 
 funniest of all to blow the bellows when .the time came to 
 put that iridescent blue temper to the finished work. 
 
 Then, naked to the waist, the soft brown hair on her 
 forehead plaited in tiniest plaits into a looped fringe, a 
 little gold filagree cup poised on the top of her head, a long 
 betasselled pigtail hanging down behind, Pertabi would 
 set her short red-trousered legs very far apart, and puff and 
 blow, and laugh, and then blow again, to her own and her 
 father's intense delight ; for Dhyan having a couple of 
 strapping sons to satisfy Mai Gunga's heart felt himself free 
 to adore this child of his later years. 
 
 But even when there was blowing to be done, Pertabi 
 did not find life in the city half as amusing as life out in 
 the village at her aunt's with cousin Nanuk as a playfellow 
 Nanuk, to whom she was to be married by and by. That 
 had been settled when she was a baby in arms, for in those 
 days, and for many years after, Suchet Singh's wife and Mai 
 Gunga had been as friendly as sister-in-laws can well be. 
 That is to say, there were visits to the village for change of 
 air, especially at sugar-baking time, while those who wished
 
 182 YOUNG LOCHtNVAR 
 
 for shopping or society came as a matter of course to the 
 armourer's house. The world wags in the same fashion 
 East and West ; especially among the women-folk. 
 
 ' They will make a fine pair ! God keep them to the 
 auspicious day,' the deep-chested country-women would say 
 piously; then Mai Gunga would giggle a bit, and remark that 
 if Nanuk grew so fast she would have to leave Pertabi at 
 home next time. Whereupon the boy's mother would flare 
 up, and sniff, as country folk do, at town ideas. In her 
 family such talk had never been necessary ; the lads and 
 lasses grew up together, and mothers were in no hurry to 
 bring age and thought upon them. Perhaps that was the 
 reason why men and women alike were of goodly stature 
 and strength ; for even Mai Gunga must admit that Dhyan 
 was at least a fine figure of a man. So there would be 
 words to while away the hours before the men returned 
 from the fields. And outside, under the bushy mulberry 
 trees, Pertabi ano! Nanuk would be fighting and making it 
 up again in the cosmopolitan fashion of healthy children. 
 Of the two, Pertabi, perhaps, hit the hardest ; she certainly 
 howled the loudest, being a wilful young person. Nanuk 
 used to implore her not to tease the sacred peacocks, when 
 they came sedately by companies to drink at the village 
 tank, as the sun set red over the limitless plane of young 
 green corn, and she would squat down suddenly on her 
 red-trousered heels with her hands tight clasped behind her 
 back, and promise to be as still as a grey crane if she might 
 only look. Then some vainglorious cock was sure to show 
 off his tail ; every tail was to Pertabi's eager eyes the most 
 beautiful one in the world, and she must needs have a 
 feather just one little feather from it as a keepsake just 
 a little keepsake. Now, what Pertabi desired she got, at
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 183 
 
 any rate if Nanuk had ought to say towards the possibility. 
 So the little tyrant would play with the feather for five 
 minutes, then fling it away. But Nanuk, serious, con- 
 scientious Nanuk, would set aside half his supper of curds 
 on the sly, and sneak out with it after sundown as an 
 oblation to the mysterious village god, who lived in a red- 
 splashed stone under the peepul tree. Else the peacocks, 
 being angry, might not cry for rain, and then what would 
 become of the green corn ? Nanuk was a born cultivator, 
 true in most things, above all to Mother Earth. Despite 
 the peacocks' feathers, however, not without a will of his 
 own ; for when, on one of his visits to the city, Pertabi 
 insisted on handling the little squirrel he brought with him 
 housed in his high turban, and it bit her, he laughed, saying 
 he had told her so ; nay, more, when she chased the 
 frightened little creature savagely, howling for vengeance, 
 he fell upon her and boxed her ears soundly, much to 
 Mai Gunga's displeasure. A rough village lout, and her 
 darling the daintiest little morsel of flesh. 
 
 ' I don't care,' sobbed Pertabi, ' I '11 bite him hard next 
 time. Yes ! I will, Nano ; you '11 see if I don't.' 
 
 Mai Gunga, however, was right in one thing. Pertabi 
 was an extremely pretty child. The gossips coming in of 
 an afternoon to discuss births, marriages, and deaths took 
 to shaking their heads and saying that she might have made 
 a better match than Nanuk, who, every one thought, would 
 limp for life in consequence of that fall from the topmost 
 branch of the strisham tree where the squirrels built their 
 nests. Not much of a limp, perhaps, but who did not 
 know that under the bone-setter's care a broken leg often 
 came out a bit shorter than the other, even if it was as 
 strong as ever ? Mai Gunga's plump, pert face hardened,
 
 i4 YOUNG LOCHINVAk 
 
 but she said nothing ; not even when a new acquaint- 
 ance, the wife of a rich contractor on the look-out for a 
 bride of good family, openly bewailed the prior claim on 
 Pertabi. 
 
 Nevertheless, the next time that the sister-in-law came to 
 town, and, on leaving it laden with endless bundles wrapped 
 in Manchester handkerchiefs, spoke confidently of the meet- 
 ing at sugar-time, Mai Gunga threw difficulties in the way. 
 She was too busy to come herself; Nanuk, still a semi- 
 invalid, must be quite sufficient charge for her sister-in-law. 
 Still, seeing that Pertabi touched the eights, she thought it 
 time for village customs to give way to greater decorum. 
 Briefly, despite the peculiar virtue of some people's families, 
 she did not choose that her daughter should be out of 
 her sight. The two women, as might be supposed, parted 
 with ceremony and effusion, but Suchet Singh's wife had 
 barely arrived in the wide village courtyards ere she burst 
 forth. 
 
 ' Mark my words ! ' she said, even as she disposed her 
 bundles about her. 'That town-bred woman means 
 mischief. I was a fool to give in to you and Dhyan instead 
 of having the barber, as to a stranger. Not that I want 
 the little hussy above other brides, but I would not have 
 Nanuk slighted.' 
 
 Suchet Singh laughed. 
 
 ' Twenty mile of an ekka hath shook thy brains out, wife. 
 What talk is this ? There are two halves of one pea. As 
 friend Elahi Buksh saith, ' Do dil razi to kia kare kaziV 
 (' When two are heart to heart, where 's the parson's part ? ') 
 
 ' Tra ! That 's neither in three nor thirteen,' retorted his 
 wife. ' Give me the barber * for certainty.' 
 
 1 The barber is always employed in regular betrothals.
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 185 
 
 Meanwhile Pertabi was howling in the little courtyard, 
 much to big, soft-hearted Dhyan's distress. 
 
 ' Let her go, but this once,' he pleaded aside, ' truly thou 
 art over anxious, and she but seven for all her spirit.' 
 
 ' Seventy or seven, God knows thee for a baby,' snapped 
 Mai Gunga. 'Would I had never listened to thee and 
 thy sister, though, for sure, the children were pretty as 
 marionettes. It was a play to think of it. But a mother 
 knows her daughter better than the father, though it seems 
 thou wilt be ordering the wedding garments next. So be 
 it, but till then Pertab goes not to Nanuk ; 'tis not seemly.' 
 
 1 1 I don't want Nanuk,' howled Pertabi. ' I I want 
 the fresh molasses I do I do.' 
 
 Want, however, was her master, since her own obstinacy 
 was but inherited from her mother. So she sat sulkily in 
 the sunshine, refusing the armourer's big caresses or the 
 charms of bellows-blowing, while she pictured to herself, 
 with all the vividness of rage, Nanuk going down going 
 down alone to watch the great shallow pans of foamy, 
 frothy, fragrant juice shrink and shrink in the dark low 
 hut where one could scarcely see save for the flame of the 
 furnaces. What joy to feed those flames with the dry 
 crushed refuse of the cane and leaves ! What bliss to 
 thrust a tentative twig, on the sly, into the seething, 
 darkening molasses and then escape deftly to that shadowy 
 hiding-place by the well, and gravely consider the question 
 as to whether it was nearly boiled enough. Toffee-making 
 all over the world has a mysterious fascination for children, 
 and this was toffee-making on a gigantic scale. The legiti- 
 mate bairn's part of scraping from each brew never tasted 
 half so sweet as those stolen morsels ; if only because, when 
 you threw away the sucked twigs, the squirrels would come
 
 186 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 
 
 shyly from the peepul tree where the green pigeons cooed 
 all day long, and fight for your leavings. Pertabi could see 
 the whole scene when she closed her eyes. The level 
 plain, the shadow of the trees blotting out the sunshine, 
 the trickle of running water from the well, the creaking of 
 the presses, the babel of busy voices, and over all, through 
 all, that lovely, lovely smell of toffee ! Yes ! sugar-baking 
 time in the village was heavenly and Nanuk was greedy 
 greedy as a grey crow to keep it all to himself ! 
 
 When spring brought big Suchet to pay the village 
 revenue into the office, he and the armourer met, as ever, 
 on the best of terms; nevertheless their subsequent inter- 
 views with their woman-kind were less satisfactory. 
 
 ' Thou art worse than a peacock which cries even after 
 rain has fallen,' finished the big villager testily. ' What is 
 
 to me if women come or go ? Dhyan is a man of mettle 
 and word.' 
 
 Yet in his heart he knew well that the armourer had no 
 more to say to such matters in the narrow city court, than 
 he had in the wide village yard, where the kine stood in 
 rows, and Nanuk's tumbler pigeons never lacked a grain of 
 corn at which to peck. 
 
 As for Mai Gunga, her wrath became finally voluble at 
 the hint thrown out by big Dhyan, that if she went no 
 more to the village, folk might talk of Pertab being 
 slighted. Slighted, indeed, with half the eligible mothers 
 agog with envy ! Slighted, when but for this cripple yea ! 
 Dhyan need not make four eyes at her she said cripple, 
 and meant it. He had a broken leg, and that to a man 
 of sense was sufficient excuse for breach of betrothals, if, 
 indeed, there ever had been such a thing as a betrothal, 
 which for her part she denied.
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 187 
 
 Dhyan Singh swore many big oaths, vowed many mighty 
 vows that he would have nought to do with such woman's 
 work. Not even if it became clear that, as his wife hinted, 
 his little Pertab would not be welcome in his sister's 
 house. Yet he scowled over the idea, twisted his beard 
 tighter over his ears, as became a man, and looked very 
 fierce. And when a month or two later Suchet Singh's 
 wife met his halting apology for Mai Gunga's absence with 
 a distinct sniff and a cool remark that she really did not 
 care Nanuk could no doubt do better in brides he came 
 home in a towering passion to his anvil and made a paper 
 knife fit for a brigand. To have such a thing said to him, 
 even in jest, when he, for his sister's sake, had been willing 
 to waive the fact of Nanuk being a cripple ! 
 
 ' Cripple indeed ! ' shrieked the boy's mother when 
 Suchet came back from the city one day with Dhyan's 
 remark enlarged and illustrated by friendly gossip. ' Lo 
 husband! That is an end. Whose fault if he limps? 
 only in running, mind, not in walking. Whose indeed ! 
 Whose but that immodest, wicked, ill-brought up hussy's. 
 Was it not to get her another squirrel, because she cried so 
 for his. that he climbed ? Let her have her girl ; we will 
 have damages.' 
 
 So when sugar-baking time came round again Suchet 
 and Dhyan, rather to their own surprise, found themselves 
 claimant and defendant in a breach of betrothal case for 
 the recovery of fifteen hundred rupees spent in preliminary 
 expenses. Yet, despite their surprise, they were both 
 beside themselves with rage. Dhyan because of the 
 unscrupulous claim when not one penny had been spent, 
 Suchet because of the slur cast on his boy's straight limbs 
 by the secondary plea in defence ; that even if there had
 
 i88 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 
 
 been a betrothal and not a family understanding, the 
 crippled condition of the bridegroom was sufficient excuse 
 for the breach of contract : the actual point of the betrothal 
 being so effectually overlaid by these lies as to be obscured 
 even from the litigant's own eyes. 
 
 It was one gorgeous blue day in December that Suchet 
 rode into the city on his pink-nosed mare with Nanuk on 
 the crupper to bear witness in court to his own perfections. 
 A handsome, soft-eyed lad of ten, glad enough of the ride, 
 sorry for the separation, even for one day, from the village 
 toffee-making ; but with a great lump of raw sugar stowed 
 away in his turban as partial consolation. For the rest he 
 had a childish and yet grave acquiescence. Pertabi appar- 
 ently had been a naughty girl, and Mammi Gunga had 
 never been nice. Yet the 'jey-sahib ' l might say they were 
 married; since after all he, Nanuk, could run as fast as 
 ever. Tchu ! he would like to show Pertabi that it was so. 
 
 The court-house compound was full of suitors and flies, 
 the case of Suchet versus Dhyan Singh late in the list, so 
 the former bade his son tie the mare in the furthest corner 
 behind the wall, in the shade of a spreading tree and keep 
 watch while he went about from group to group in order 
 to discuss his wrongs with various old friends ; that being 
 half the joy of going to law. Grave groups of reverend, 
 bearded faces round a central pipe, grave, slow voices rising 
 in wise saws from the close set circles of huge turbans and 
 massive blue and white draperies. 
 
 Meanwhile Nanuk ate sugar till it began to taste sickly, 
 and then he sat looking at the remaining lump and think- 
 ing, not without a certain malice, how Pertabi would have 
 enjoyed it. Then suddenly, from behind, a small brown 
 1 Judge.
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 189 
 
 hand reached out and snatched it. ' One two, that's for 
 you; two three, that 's for me ; three four, sugar galore ; the 
 Rajab begs, with a broken leg .' The singing voice paused ; 
 the little figure munching, as it sang, with vindictive eyes 
 upon the boy, paused too in its tantalising dance. 
 
 ' Did it hurt much, Nano ? I J m so sorry. And mother 
 wouldn't let me keep the squirrel, Nano ; but I howled, I 
 howled like like a bhut (devil).' 
 
 The abstract truth of the description seemed to bring 
 back the past, and Nanuk's face relaxed. 
 
 ' Father 's at court, and mother 's gone to see the woman 
 who wants me to marry her son,' explained Pertabi between 
 the munchings, ' but I won't. I won't marry anybody but 
 you, Nano. I like you, Nano.' 
 
 Nano's face relaxed still more. 
 
 'You have got sugar- presses, Nano, and the other boy 
 has none. He lives in the city, and I hate the city. Is 
 there much sugar this year, Nano ? ' 
 
 ' More than last,' replied the boy proudly. ' We have 
 the best fields in ' 
 
 ' Then give me another bit,' interrupted Pertabi. 
 
 ' That is all I brought.' There was a trace of anxiety in 
 Nanuk's voice, and he looked deprecatingly at the little 
 figure now cuddled up beside him. 
 
 ' O you silly ! but it doesn't matter. We can go and 
 fetch some more. That 's why I ran away. I knew uncle 
 would bring you, so we can go to the village early. Come, 
 Nano.' 
 
 ' Go to the village, Pertab ! Oh, what a tale ! ' It is 
 easy to be virtuously indignant at the first proposition of 
 evil, but what is to be done when you are at the mercy 
 of a small person who hesitates at nothing? Wheedlings,
 
 igo YOUNG LOCHINVAR 
 
 pinchings, kissings, tears, and promises were all one to 
 Pertabi. At least a ride on the pink-nosed mare for the 
 sake of old times ! They could slip away easily without 
 being seen ; yonder lay the road villagewards there would 
 be plenty of time to go a mile, perhaps twain, and get back 
 before Chachchaji could possibly finish with his friends. 
 She could get off at the corner, and then even if Chachchaji 
 had discovered their absence Nano could say he had taken 
 the mare for water, or that the flies were troublesome. 
 Excuses were so easy. 
 
 Ten minutes after, his feet barely reaching the big 
 shovel stirrups, young Lochinvar ambled out of the court- 
 house compound with his bride behind him. 
 
 ' We must come back at the turn, Pertab,' he said, to 
 bolster up his own resolution. 
 
 ' Of course we must come back,' replied Pertabi, digging 
 her small heels into the old grey mare. ' Can't you make 
 the stupid go faster, Nano ? We may as well have all the 
 fun we can.' 
 
 So the old mare went faster down the high-arched 
 avenue of flickering light and shade, and Pertabi's little 
 red legs flounced about in a way suggestive of falling off. 
 But she shrieked with laughter and held tight to her 
 cavalier. 
 
 ' Don't let us go back yet, Nano ! ' she pleaded ; c the 
 old thing is all out of breath, and Chachchaji will find out 
 you Ve been galloping her, and beat you. I shouldn't like 
 you to be beaten, Nano dear, and it is so lovely.' 
 
 It was lovely. They were in the open now among the 
 level stretches of young green corn, and there were the 
 fallen battalions of red and gold canes, and from that clump 
 of trees came the familiar creak of the press. Nay, more !
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 191 
 
 wafted on the soft breeze the delicious, the irresistible smell 
 of sugar-boiling. Other people's sugar-boiling. 
 
 ' It 's time we were going back/ remarked Ninuk 
 boldly. 
 
 ' TchuT cried Pertabi from behind, 'we are not going 
 back any more. See ! 1 've tied your shawl to my veil. 
 When I do that to my dolls, then they are married ; so that 
 settles it. Go on, Nano ! it 's all right. Besides it is no 
 use going back now, they would only beat us for getting 
 married. Go on, Nano or I '11 pinch.' 
 
 Perhaps it really was fear of the pinching, perhaps it was 
 the conviction that they had gone too far to recede, which 
 finally induced young Lochinvar to give the old mare her 
 head towards home. But even then he showed none of 
 the alacrity displayed beneath him and behind him by the 
 female aiders and abettors. His face grew graver and 
 graver, longer and longer. 
 
 ' We can't be married until we 've taken the seven steps,' 
 he said at length. ' Look ! they have been burning weeds 
 in the field. Let 's get down and do it, or the gods will be 
 angry.' 
 
 Pertabi clapped her hands. ' It will be fun, anyhow, so 
 come along, Nano.' 
 
 They tied the old mare to a tree, while, hand tight clasped 
 in hand, just as they had seen it done a hundred times, they 
 circumambulated the sacred fire. 
 
 ' That 's better,' sighed Nano. ' Now, I believe, we really 
 are married.' 
 
 ' Tchu ! ' cried Pertabi in superior wisdom, ' I can tell 
 you heaps and heaps of things. Our dolls do them when 
 we've time; we are always marrying our dolls in the city. 
 But we can ride a bit further first, and when we get tired of
 
 192 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 
 
 Pinky-nose we can just get down and be married another 
 way. That '11 rest us.' 
 
 So through the lengthening shadows, they rode on and 
 got married, rode on, and got married, until Pertabi's 
 braided head began to nod against Nanuk's back, and she 
 said sleepily 
 
 ' We '11 keep the gur-row (sugar-throwing) till to-morrow, 
 Nano ; that '11 be fun.' 
 
 But when, in the deep dusk, the pink-nosed mare drew 
 up of her own accord at the gate of the wide village-yard, 
 and drowsy Nanuk just remembered enough of past events 
 to lift his bride across the threshold, and murmur with an 
 awful qualm, ' This is my wife.' Pertabi woke up suddenly 
 to plant her little red-trousered legs firmly on the ground, 
 and say, with a nod 
 
 ' Yes ! and we 've been married every way we could 
 think of, haven't we, Nano ? except the sugar-throwing, 
 because we hadn't any; but we'll have plenty now; 
 won't we, Nano ? ' The pauses being filled up by yawns. 
 
 It was midnight before Suchet Singh and Dhyan, forgetful 
 of their enmity in overmastering anxiety, arrived on the 
 scene. The culprits were then fast asleep, and the deep- 
 chested countrywoman, having recovered the shock, was 
 beginning to find a difficulty in telling the tale without 
 smiles. A difficulty which, by degrees, extended itself to 
 her hearers. 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! ho I' exploded Suchet suddenly; ' and so they 
 didn't even forget the forehead mark. I '11 be bound that 
 was Nanuk the rogue.' 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! ho ! ' echoed the armourer ; ' as like as not it 
 was Pertab. The sharpest little marionette.' 
 
 ' Well, 'tis done, anyhow,' said the woman decisively.
 
 YOUNG LOCH INVAR 193 
 
 ' We can't have it said in our family, Dhyan, that the ver- 
 milion on a girl's head came save from her husband's 
 fingers. He ! he ! he ! Couldst but have seen them. 
 " This is my wife," quoth he. " And we Ve been married 
 every way we could think of," pipes she. " Haven't we, 
 Nano?" The prettiest pair Lord ! I shall laugh for ever.' 
 
 ' And and Gunga ? ' faltered the armourer. 
 
 ' Gunga's brain is not addled,' retorted her sister-in-law 
 sharply. ' Who bruises a plum before taking it to market ? 
 What's done is done. We must cook the wedding-feast 
 without delay, have in the barber, and keep a still tongue.' 
 
 So, ere many days were over, Pertabi and Nanuk, as bride 
 and bridegroom, watched the fire-balloons go up into the 
 cloudless depths of purple sky : the boy watching them 
 shyly, yet with absorbing interest ; for did not their course 
 denote the favour or disfavour of the gods ? 
 
 ' The omens are auspicious,' he said contentedly ; but 
 Pertabi was in a hurry for the sugar-throwing, in which she 
 aided her bridesmaids with such vigour that Nanuk had a 
 black eye for several days. 
 
 ' If you were to ask me, and ask me, and ask me to lift 
 you on old Pinky-nose again, I 'd never do it never \ ' he 
 declared vindictively. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! you would, Nano,' replied his wife with the 
 utmost confidence, ' you would if I asked you ; besides you 
 really wanted to be married, you know you did. And then 
 there was the fresh molasses.'
 
 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 HE stood in the hot, yellow sunshine, his air of modest 
 importance forming a halo round his old, rickety figure, as 
 with one hand he clung to a plane table, old and rickety 
 as himself, and with the other to one of those large-eyed, 
 keen-faced Indian boys who seem to have been sent into 
 the world in order to take scholarships. The old man, on 
 the contrary, was of the monkey type of his race, small, 
 bandy-legged, and inconceivably wrinkled, with a three 
 days' growth of grey beard frosting his brown cheeks; 
 only the wide-set brown eyes had a certain wistful beauty 
 in them. 
 
 In front of those appealing eyes sat a ruddy-faced 
 Englishman backed by the white wings of an office tent, 
 and deep in the calf-bound books and red-taped files on 
 the table before him. On either side, discreetly drawn 
 apart so as to allow the central group its full picturesque 
 value, were tall figures, massive in beards and wide turbans, 
 in falling folds of dingy white and indigo blue ; massive 
 also in broad, capable features, made broader still by 
 capable approving smiles over the old man, the boy, and 
 the plane-table. So standing, they were a typical group of 
 Jat peasantry appealing with confidence to English justice 
 for the observance of Indian custom. 
 
 ' Then the head-men are satisfied with this ad interim 
 arrangement?' asked the palpably foreign voice. The 
 
 194
 
 A BIT OF LAND 195 
 
 semicircle of writers and subordinate officials on the striped 
 carpet beyond the table moved their heads like clockwork 
 figures to the circle of peasants, as if giving it permission 
 to speak, and a chorus of guttural voices rose in assent ; 
 then, after village fashion, one voice prolonged itself in 
 representative explanation. ' It will be but for three years 
 or so, and the Shelter-of-the-World is aware that the fields 
 cannot run away. And old Tulsi knows how to make the 
 Three-Legged-One work; thus there is no fear.' The 
 speaker thrust a declamatory hand in the direction of the 
 plane-table, and the chorus of assent rose once more. 
 
 So the matter was settled ; the matter being, briefly, the 
 appointment of a new putwari^ in other words the official 
 who measures the fields, and prepares the yearly harvest- 
 map, showing the area under cultivation on which the 
 Land Revenue has to be paid ; in other words again, the 
 man who stands between India and bankruptcy. In this 
 particular case the recently defunct incumbent had left a 
 son who was as yet over young for the hereditary office, 
 and the head-men had proposed putting in the boy's 
 maternal grandfather as a substitute, until the former could 
 pass through the necessary modern training in the Account- 
 ants' College at head- quarters. The proposition was fair 
 enough, seeing that Gurditta was sure to pass, as he was al- 
 ready head of the queer little village school which the elders 
 viewed with incredulous tolerance. And, to tell the truth, 
 their doubts were not without some reason; for on that 
 very day when the Englishman was inspecting, the first 
 class had bungled over a simple revenue sum, which any 
 one could do in his head with the aid, of course, of the ten 
 God-given fingers without which the usurer would indeed 
 be king. The master had explained the mistake by saying
 
 196 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 that it was no fault of the rules, and only arose because 
 the boys had forgotten which was the bigger of two num- 
 bers; but that in itself was something over which to 
 chuckle under their breaths and nudge each other on the 
 sly. Ari hai! the lads would be forgetting next which end 
 of the plough to hold, the share or the handle ! But 
 Purm-eshwar l be praised ! only upon their slates could 
 they forget it, since a true-born Jat's hand could never 
 lose such knowledge. 
 
 So, underlying the manifest convenience of not allowing 
 a stranger's finger in their pie, the elders of the village had 
 a secondary consideration in pleading for old Tulsi Ram's 
 appointment ; a desire, namely, to show the world at large, 
 and the Presence in particular, that there had been put- 
 waries before he came to cast his mantle of protection over 
 the poor. Besides, old Tulsi, though he looked like a 
 monkey, might be Sri Hunuman 2 himself in the wisdom 
 necessary for settling the thousand petty disputes, without 
 which the village would be so dull. Then he was a real 
 saint to boot, all the more saintly because he was willing 
 to forgo his preparation for another world in order to 
 keep a place warm for his grandson in this. 
 
 And after all it was only for three years ! They, and 
 Tulsi, and the Three-Legged-One could surely manage the 
 maps for so long. If not, well, it was no great matter, 
 since the fields could not possibly run away. So they 
 went off contentedly in procession, Tulsi Ram clinging 
 ostentatiously to the plane-table, which, by reason of its 
 straighter, longer legs, looked for all the world as if it were 
 taking charge of him, and not he of it. 
 
 It looked still more in possession as it stood decently 
 1 The Universal God. a The Monkey-god.
 
 A BIT OF LAND 197 
 
 draped beside the old man as he worked away at the long 
 columns of figures ; for the mapping-season was over, and 
 nothing remained but addition, subtraction, and division, 
 at all of which old Tulsi was an adept. Had he not indeed 
 dipped far into 'Euclidus' in his salad-days, when he was the 
 favourite disciple of the renowned anchorite at Janakpur ? 
 
 Gurditta by this time was away at college, and Kishnu, 
 his widowed mother, as she cooked the millet-cakes 
 in the other corner of the courtyard, wept salt tears 
 at the thought of the unknown dangers he was running. 
 Deadly dangers they were, for had not his father been 
 quite healthy until the Government had insisted on his 
 using the Three-Legged-One ? And then, had he not gone 
 down and wrestled with it on the low, misty levels of 
 newly-reclaimed land by the river-side, and caught the 
 chills of which he had eventually died ? Thus when the 
 rainy season came on, and the plane-table, still decently 
 draped, was set aside for shelter in the darkest corner of 
 the hovel, it looked to poor Kishnu like some malevolent 
 demon ready to spring out upon the little household. And 
 so, naturally enough, when Tulsi went to fetch it out for 
 his first field-measurements, he found it garlanded with 
 yellow marigolds, and set out with little platters of curds 
 and butter. Kishnu had been propitiating it with offerings. 
 
 The old man looked at her in mild, superior reproof. 
 ' Thou art an ignorant woman, daughter,' he said. ' This 
 is no devil, but a device of the learned, of much use to 
 such as I who make maps. Thou shouldest have known 
 that the true Gods are angered by false worship ; therefore 
 I counsel thee to remember great Mahadeo this day, lest 
 evil befall.' 
 
 So he passed out into the sunlight, bearing the plane-
 
 198 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 table in debonair fashion, leaving the abashed Kishnu to 
 gather up the marigolds. Baba-ji, she told herself, was 
 brave, but he had not to bustle about the house all day 
 with that shrouded thing glowering from the corner. How- 
 ever, since for Gurdit's sake it was wise to propitiate every- 
 thing, she took the platters of curds and butter over to 
 Mahadeo's red stone under the big banyan tree. 
 
 Nevertheless, she felt triumphant that evening when old 
 Tulsi came in from the fields dispirited, and professing no 
 appetite for his supper. He had in fact discovered that 
 studying text-books and making practical field-measure- 
 ments were very different things, especially in a treeless, 
 formless plain, where the only landmarks are the mud 
 boundary-cones you are set to verify, and which therefore 
 cannot, or ought not to be, considered fixed points. 
 
 However, he managed at last to draw two imaginary 
 lines through the village, thanks to Purm-eshwar and the 
 big green dome of Mahadeo's banyan tree swelling up into 
 the blue horizon. Indeed he felt so grateful to the latter 
 for showing clear, even over a plane-table, that he sneaked 
 out when Kishnu's back was turned with a platter of curds 
 of his own for the great, many-armed trunk ; but this, of 
 course, was very different from making oblation to a trivial 
 plane-table. And that evening he spent all the lingering 
 light in decorating the borders of the map (which was yet 
 to come) with the finest flourishes, just, as he told Kishnu, 
 to show the Protector-of-the-Poor that he had not com- 
 mitted the//*/zw/-ship to unworthy hands. 
 
 Yet two days afterwards he replied captiously to his 
 daughter's anxious inquiries as to what was the matter. 
 There was nought wrong ; only one of the three legs had 
 no sense of duty, and he must get the carpenter to put a
 
 A BIT OF LAND 199 
 
 nail to it. Despite the nail, however, the anxiety grew 
 on his face, and when nobody was looking he took to 
 tramping over the ploughs, surreptitiously dragging the 
 primeval chain-measure after him; in which occupation 
 he looked like a monkey who had escaped from its owner 
 the plane-table, which, with the old man's mantle draped 
 over it, and his pugree placed on the top, had a very 
 dignified appearance in the corner of the field ; for it was 
 hot work dragging the heavy chain about, and old Tulsi, 
 who was too proud to ask for aid and so disclose the 
 fact that he had had to fall back on ancient methods, 
 discarded all the clothing he could. 
 
 And after all he had to give in. ' Gurdit's father did it 
 field by field,' said the head-men carelessly when he sought 
 their advice. ' Fret not thyself, Baba-ji. 'Twill come right; 
 thou art a better scholar than ever he was.' 
 
 ' Field by field ! ' echoed Tulsi aghast. ' But the book 
 prohibits it, seeing that there is not verification, since none 
 can know if the boundaries be right.' 
 
 A broad chuckle ran round the circle of elders. 'Is 
 that all, Sri Tulsi?' cried the head-man. 'That is soon 
 settled. A Jat knows his own land, I warrant ; and each 
 man of us will verify his fields, seeing that never before 
 have we had such a settling-day as thine. Not an error, 
 not an injustice ! Purm-eshwar send Gurditta to be as 
 good a putwari when he comes ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, 'tis Gurdit who is putwari already,' replied Tulsi 
 uneasily ; ' and therefore must there be no mistake. So I 
 will do field by field ; peradventure when they are drawn 
 on paper it may seem more like the book where things do 
 not move. Then I can begin again by rule.' 
 
 There was quite a pleasurable excitement over the attested
 
 200 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 measurement of the fields, and old Munnia, the parcher of 
 corn, said it was almost as good as a fair to her trade. 
 Each man clanked the chain round his own boundary, 
 while his neighbours stood in the now sprouting wheat to 
 see fair play and talk over the past history of the claim ; 
 Tulsi Ram meanwhile squatting on the ground and draw- 
 ing away as for dear life. Even the children went forth to 
 see the show, munching popped corn and sidling gingerly 
 past the Three-Legged-One which, to say sooth, looked 
 gigantic with half the spare clothes of the community piled 
 on to it; indeed the village women, peeping from afar, 
 declared Kishnu to have been quite right, and urged a 
 further secret oblation as prudent, if not absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 So she took to hanging the marigolds again, taking care 
 to remove them ere the old man rose in the morning. 
 And the result was eminently satisfactory, for as he put 
 one field-plan after another away in the portfolio Tulsi 
 Ram's face cleared. They were so beautifully green, far 
 greener than those in the book ; so surely there could be 
 no mistake. But alas ! when he came to try and fit them 
 together as they should be on the map, they resolutely 
 refused to do anything of the kind. It was a judgment, he 
 felt, for having disobeyed the text-book ; and so the next 
 morning he rose at the peep of day determined to have it 
 out legitimately with the Three-Legged-One. And lo ! it 
 was garlanded with marigolds and set out once more with 
 platters of curds and butter. 
 
 'Thou hast undone me, ignorant woman !' he said with 
 a mixture of anger and relief. ' Now is it clear ! The true 
 Gods, in despite of thy false worship, have sent a devil into 
 this thing to destroy me.' So despite Kishnu's terror and
 
 A BIT OF LAND 201 
 
 tears he threw the offerings into the fire, and dragged the 
 plane-table out into the fields with ignominy. 
 
 But even this protestation failed, and poor old Tulsi, 
 one vast wrinkle of perplexity, was obliged once more to 
 refer to the circle of head-men. 
 
 'Gurdit's father managed, and thou hast twice his 
 mettle,' they replied, vaguely interested. 'Sure the devil 
 must indeed be in it, seeing that the land cannot run away 
 of itself.' 
 
 ' It hath not run away,' said Tulsi dejectedly. ' There 
 is not too little, but too much of it.' 
 
 Too much land ! The idea was at first bewildering to 
 these Jat peasants, and then sent them into open laughter. 
 Here was a mistake indeed ! and yet the lust of land, so 
 typical of their race, showed in their eyes as they crowded 
 round the map which Tulsi Ram spread on the ground. 
 It was a model of neatness : the fields were greener than 
 the greenest wheat ; but right in the middle of them was a 
 white patch of no-man's-land. 
 
 ' Trra ! ' rolled the broadest of the party after an instant's 
 stupefaction. 'That settles it. 'Tis a mistake, for look 
 you, 'tis next my fields, and if 'twere there my plough 
 would have been in it long ago.' A sigh of conviction and 
 relief passed through the circle, for the mere suggestion 
 had been disturbing. Nevertheless, since Gurdit's father's 
 map had never indulged in white spots, Tulsi's must be 
 purged from them also. 'Look you,' said one of the 
 youngest ; ' 'tis as when the children make a puzzle of torn 
 leaves. He has fitted them askew, so let each cut his own 
 field out of the paper and set it aright.' 
 
 Then ensued an hour of sheer puzzledom, since if the 
 white spot were driven from one place it re-appeared
 
 202 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 differently shaped in another. The devil was in it, they 
 said at last, somewhat alarmed ; since he who brought land 
 might be reasonably suspected of the power of taking it 
 away. They would offer a scapegoat ; and meanwhile old 
 Tulsi need not talk of calling in the aid of the nz\v putwari 
 in the next village, for he was one of the new-fangled sort, 
 an empty drum making a big noise, and, as likely as not, 
 would make them pay double, if there really was extra 
 land, because it had not come into the schedule before. 
 No ! they would ask the schoolmaster first, since he had 
 experience in finding excuse for mistakes. Nor was their 
 trust unfounded, for the master not only had an excuse in 
 something he called 'a reasonable margin of error,' but 
 also a remedy which, he declared, the late putwari had 
 always adopted briefly, a snip here, a bulge there, and a 
 general fudging with the old settlement-maps. 
 
 The elders clapped old Tulsi on the back with fresh 
 laughter bidding him not try to be cleverer than others, 
 and so sent him back to his drawing-board. But long after 
 the dusk had fallen that evening, the old man sat staring 
 stupidly at the great sheet of blank paper on which he had 
 not drawn a line. It was no business of his what Gurdit's 
 father had done, seeing that he too was of the old school 
 inwardly, if not outwardly ; but Gurdit himself, when he 
 returned, would allow of no such dishonesties, and he, 
 Tulsi, was in the boy's place. There was time yet, a 
 month at least before inspection, in which to have it out 
 with the plane-table. So when the wild geese from the 
 mud-banks came with the first streak of dawn to feed on 
 the wheat, they found old Tulsi and his attendant demon 
 there already, at work on the dewy fields ; and when sun- 
 set warned the grey crane that it was time to wing their
 
 A BIT OF LAND 203 
 
 flight riverwards, they left Tulsi and the Three-Legged-One 
 still struggling with the margin of error. 
 
 Then he would sit up of nights plotting and planning 
 till a dim, dazed look came into his bright old eyes, and 
 he had to borrow a pair of horn spectacles from the widow 
 of a dead friend. He was getting old, he told Kishnu 
 (who was in despair), as men must get old, no matter how 
 many marigolds ignorant women wasted on false gods ; for 
 she had taken boldly, and unchecked, to the oblations again. 
 
 But in the end inspection-day found that white bit of 
 land white as ever, nay, whiter against the dark finger 
 which pointed at it accusingly; since, as ill-luck would 
 have it, what only the natives themselves may call a 
 Black Judge was the inspecting officer. A most admirable 
 young Bachelor of Arts from the Calcutta University, full 
 to the brim of solid virtue, and utterly devoid of any 
 sneaking, sentimental sympathy with the quips and cranks 
 of poor humanity those lichens of life which make its 
 rough rocks and water-worn boulders so beautiful to the 
 seeing eye. 'This must not occur,' he said, speaking, 
 after the manner of the alien, in English to his clerk in 
 order to enhance his dignity. 'It is gross negligence of 
 common orders. Write as warning that if better map be 
 not forthcoming, locum tenens loses appointment with 
 adverse influence on hereditary claims.' 
 
 Adverse influence on hereditary claims ! The words, 
 translated brutally, as only clerks can translate, sent poor 
 old Tulsi into an agony of remorse and resolve. 
 
 A month afterwards Kishnu spoke to the head-men. 
 'The Three-Legged-One hath driven the puhuari crazy,' 
 she said. ' Remove it from him or he will die. Justice ! 
 Justice!'
 
 204 A BIT OF LAND 
 
 So it was removed and hidden away with obloquy in an 
 outhouse ; whereupon he sat and cried that he had ruined 
 Gurdit Gurdit, the light of his eyes ! 
 
 'Heed not the Bengali,' they said at last in sheer 
 despair. ' He is a fool. Thou shalt come with us to the 
 big Sahib. He will understand, seeing that he is more 
 our race than the other.' 
 
 That is how it came to pass that Tulsi Ram sat on the 
 stucco steps of an Englishman's house, pointing with a 
 trembling but truthful finger at a white spot among the 
 green, while a circle of bearded Jats informed the Presence 
 that Sri Hunuman himself was not wiser nor better than 
 their putwari. 
 
 ' And how do you account for it ? I mean, what do you 
 think it is?' asked the foreign voice curiously. 
 
 The wrinkles on Tulsi's forehead grew deeper, his bright 
 yet dim eyes looked wistfully at the master of his fate. 
 ' 'Tis an over large margin of error, Huzoor, owing to lack 
 of control over the plane-table. That is what the book 
 says ; that is what Gurdit will say.' 
 
 ' But what do you say ? How do you think that bit of 
 land came into your village?' 
 
 Tulsi hesitated, gained confidence somehow from the 
 blue eyes: 'Unless Purm-eshwar sent a bit of another 
 world ? ' he suggested meekly. 
 
 The Englishman stood for a moment looking down on 
 the wizened, monkey-like face, the truthful finger, the 
 accusing white spot. 'I think he has,' he said at last. 
 ' Go home, Tulsi, and colour it blue. I '11 pass it as a bit 
 of Paradise.' 
 
 So that year there was a blue patch, like a tank, where 
 no tank should be, upon the village map, and the old
 
 A BIT OF LAND 205 
 
 putivari's conscience found peace in the correct total of 
 the columns of figures which he added together; while 
 the Three-Legged-One, released from durance vile at his 
 special request, stood in the corner garlanded with the 
 marigolds of thanksgiving. Perhaps that was the reason 
 why, next mapping season, the patch of Paradise had 
 shrunk to half its original size ; or perhaps it was that he 
 really had more control over the plane-table. At any rate 
 he treated it more as a friend by spreading its legs very 
 wide apart, covering it with his white cotton shawl, and so 
 using it as a tent when the sun was over hot. 
 
 And yet when, on Gurdit's return from college with a 
 first-class surveyor's certificate, Paradise became absorbed 
 in a legitimate margin of error, there was a certain wistful 
 regret in old Tulsi's pride, and he said, that being an 
 ignorant old man, it was time he returned to find Paradise 
 in another way. 
 
 ' But thou shalt not leave us for the wilderness as before,' 
 swore the Jats in council. ' Lo ! Gurdit is young and hasty, 
 and thou wilt be needed to settle the disputes ; so we will 
 give thee a saintly sitting of thy very own in our village.' 
 
 But Tulsi objected. The fields were the fields, he said, 
 and the houses were the houses ; it only led to difficulties 
 to put odd bits of land into a map, and he would be quite 
 satisfied to sit anywhere. In the end, however, he had to 
 give in, for when he died, after many years spent in settling 
 disputes, some one suggested that he really had been Sri 
 Hunuman himself; at any rate he was a saint. So the 
 white spot marking a shrine reappeared in the map to show 
 whence the old man had passed to the Better Land.
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 IT was one of those blue days which come to the plains 
 of Upper India when the rains of early September have 
 ceased, leaving the heat-weary, dust-soiled world regenerate 
 by baptism. 
 
 A light breeze sent westering ripples along the pools of 
 water filling each shallow depression, and stirred the fine 
 fretwork of an acacia set thick with little odorous puffs, 
 sweet as a violet. Despite the ruddy glow of the sinking 
 sun, the shadows, far and near, still kept their marvellous 
 blue a clear porcelain blue, showing the purity of the 
 rain-washed air. A painter need have used but three 
 colours in reproducing the scene red and blue and yellow 
 in the sky ; russet and blue and gold in the tall battalions 
 of maize and millet half-conquered by the sickle, which 
 stood in shadowed squares or lay in sunlit reaches, right 
 away to the level horizon. 
 
 Russet and blue and gold, also, in the dress of a woman 
 who was crouching against the palisade of plaited tiger- 
 grass, which formed two sides of the well-homestead. Seen 
 upon this dull gold diaper, her madder-red veil and blue 
 petticoat, with their corn-coloured embroideries, seemed 
 to blend and be lost in the harvest scene beyond, even 
 the pools of water finding counterpart in the bits of looking- 
 glass gleaming here and there among her ample drapery. 
 She was a woman who in other countries would have been 
 
 206
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 207 
 
 accounted in the prime of life; in India, past it. Yet, 
 as she crouched her whole body tense in the effort of 
 listening every line of her strong face and form showed 
 that she was not past the prime of passion. 
 
 1 AH! Heart's delight! See, O father! Yon is his 
 fifth step, and still he totters not. What ! wouldst crawl 
 again ? Oh ! fie upon such laziness.' The high, girlish 
 voice from within the palisade paused in a gurgle of girlish 
 laughter. ' Say, O father ! looks he not, thus poised hands 
 and feet, for all the world like the monkey people in 
 Gopal's shop when they would be at the sweets? Ail 
 my brother ! what hast found in the dust ? Cry not, 
 heart's life. Mother will give it back to Chujju again. 
 So, that is good ! Holy Ganeshji ! Nought but a grain 
 of corn ! Art so hungry as all that, my little pecking 
 pigeon, my little bird from heaven?' 
 
 'Little glutton, thou meanest,' chuckled a bass voice. 
 ' Still, of a truth, O Maya, the boy grows.' 
 
 'Grows? I tell thee he hath grown. See you not this 
 two-year old hath turned farmer already? He comes to 
 bargain with thee, having his corn in his hand. Give 
 him a good price, to handsel his luck, O Gurditta 
 Lumberdar.' 1 
 
 ' I will pay thee for him, O wife ! Sure, hast thou not 
 given me the boy, and shall I not pay my debt? Nay, I 
 am not foolish, as thou sayest. What ! Wouldst have me 
 kiss thee also, little rogue ? So ! Yet do I love mother 
 best best of all.' 
 
 The woman behind the palisade stood up suddenly. 
 Tall as she was, the feathery tops of the tiger-grass rose 
 taller; so she could stand, even as she had crouched, 
 1 Headman of village.
 
 2o8 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 unseen. Unseeing also. Other women might have lent 
 eyes to aid their ears, but Saraswati was no spy no eaves- 
 dropper by intent, either. The lacquered spinning-wheel, 
 the wheat-straw basket piled with downy cotton cards, 
 which lay on the ground beside her, testified to what her 
 occupation had been, till something Heaven knows what, 
 for she heard such light-hearted babble every day in 
 those careless voices roused her pent-up jealousy beyond 
 the dead level of patience. She was not jealous of the 
 child. Ah, no ! not of the child. Was it not for the sake 
 of such a one that three years before she had given Maya, 
 his mother, a dignified welcome to the childless home? 
 But Maya ? Ah ! well was she called Maya the woman 
 prolific of deceit and illusion, of whom the pundits spoke ; 
 woman, not content with being the child-bringer, but seek- 
 ing Saraswati's large, capable hands closed in upon 
 
 themselves tightly. She did not need to peer through the 
 plaited chinks to know the scene within. She saw it burnt 
 in upon her slow, constant brain. The tall bearded man 
 of her own age her own type her kinsman the patient, 
 kindly husband of her youth ; the child his naked brown 
 limbs dimpled still more by silver circlets on wrists and 
 ankles; those curving, dimpling limbs, which, somehow, 
 made her heart glad ; and between them, degrading them 
 both, Maya, with her petty, pretty face, her petty, pretty 
 ways. 
 
 Suddenly, as it had come, the passion passed passed 
 into that curious resignation, that impassive acquiescence, 
 which does more to separate East from West than all the 
 seas which lie between England and India. 
 
 'Old Dhunnu said sooth,' she muttered, stooping to 
 gather up her wheel and bobbins methodically. "Tis the
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 209 
 
 child which makes him love her, and I have been a fool to 
 doubt it. I will delay no longer.' 
 
 Behind the low mud-houses, angled so as to form two 
 sides of the square, four or five jujube trees clustered 
 thickly, and beneath them the dark green whips of the 
 jasmine bushes curved to the ground like a fountain set 
 with blossoms. Hence, and from the straggling rose hard 
 by, the women in the early dawn gathered flowers for the 
 chaplets used in the worship of the gods. There were so 
 many occasions requiring such offerings ; sorrowful hours 
 and joyful hours, whether they were of birth, or marriage, 
 or death. Who could say, till the end came, whether they 
 were one or the other? Only this was certain, flowers 
 were needed for them all. 
 
 Towards this thicket Saraswati, still with the same im- 
 passive face, made her way, pausing an instant before the 
 long, low, mud manger where her favourite milch cow stood 
 tethered, to stroke its soft muzzle and give it a few tall 
 stalks of millet from a sheaf resting against the well-wheel. 
 And once more the scene was red and blue and gold, as the 
 broad yellow leaves and blood-streaked stems blent with 
 her dress. There was not a change in her face, as, parting 
 the branches, she disappeared into the thicket, scattering 
 the loose blossoms as she went ; not a change, when, after 
 a minute or two, she reappeared, carrying a little basket 
 with a domed cover, securely fastened by many strands of 
 raw cotton thread, such as she had been spinning a basket 
 of wheaten straw festooned with cowries, and tufted with 
 parti-coloured tassels, such as the Jatni women make for 
 the safe keeping of feminine trifles an innocent-looking 
 basket, suggestive of beads and trinkets. She paused a 
 moment, holding it to her ear, and then for the first time 
 
 O
 
 210 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 a faint smile flickered about her mouth as she caught a 
 curious rasping noise, half purr, half rustle. 
 
 ' Death hath a long life,' she murmured, as she hid the 
 basket in the voluminous folds of her veil and walked over 
 to the homestead. As she entered by a wide gap in the 
 plaited palisade, the scene within was even as she had 
 imagined it; but the barb had struck home before, and 
 the actual sight did not enchance her resentment. 
 
 ' It grows late, O Maya,' she said coldly. ' Leave playing 
 with the child and see to the fire for the cooking of our 
 lord's food. Thou hast scarce left an ember aglow beneath 
 the lentils while I was yonder spinning.' 
 
 The reproof was no more than what might come with 
 dignity from an elder wife ; but Gurditta, lounging his long 
 length in well-earned rest on a string bed, rose, murmuring 
 something of seeing to the plough oxen ere supper-time. 
 The big man was dimly dissatisfied with affairs ; he felt a 
 vague desire to behave better towards the woman who had 
 been his faithful companion for so many years. But for 
 her, he knew well, things would go but ill in the little 
 homestead by the well. Yet Maya was so pretty. What 
 man, still undulled by age, would not do as he did ? For 
 all that, the little capricious thing might be more friendly 
 with Saras wati ; there was no need for her to snatch Chujju 
 in her arms whenever the latter looked at the child. But 
 then women and Maya was a thorough woman were 
 always so fearful of the evil eye. Fancy her calling that 
 straight-limbed, utterly desirable son, Chujju, 1 as if any one 
 would cast such a gift away in the sweeper's pan ! As if 
 the gods themselves, far off as they were, could be deceived 
 
 1 From chuj'j, a sweeper's basket. One of the many opprobrious 
 names given to avert the envious, and therefore evil, eye.
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 211 
 
 by such a palpable fraud, or even by that ridiculous 
 smudge of charcoal on the boy's face which only enhanced 
 instead of detracting from its beauty ! Gurditta laughed a 
 deep, broad laugh as he strewed the long manger with corn 
 cobs and green stuff cut from the fodder field by the well. 
 
 Meanwhile, within the house yard, Maya was sullenly 
 blowing away at the embers held in the semicircular mud 
 fireplaces ranged along one of the walls. A grass thatch, 
 supported by two forked sticks, protected this, the kitchen 
 of the house, from possible rain and certain sun ; while on 
 the other wall a similar screen did like duty to a triple row 
 of niches or pigeon-holes, wherein the household stores in 
 immediate use were kept out of harm's way. For the rest, 
 was a clean-swept expanse of beaten earth set round, after 
 the fashion in a farmer's house, with implements and hive- 
 like stores of grain. Between the one thatch and the other 
 Saraswati moved restlessly, bringing pickles and spices as 
 they were wanted. And still the basket lay tucked away 
 in the folds of her veil. 
 
 ' The raw sugar is nigh done,' she said, stooping with her 
 back towards Maya to reach the lowest row of niches. 
 
 ' We must use the candy to-night, till I can open the big 
 store. Luckily I bought some when we took the Diwali l 
 sweets from Gopal.' Then, ere she replaced the cloth in 
 which the sweetmeats were tied, she held out a sugar horse 
 to the child, who was playing by his mother. 'Here, 
 Chujju, wilt have one ? ' 
 
 Maya was on her feet at once, indignant, vehement. 
 
 ' Thou shouldst not offer him such things. He shall not 
 
 take them from thee. I will not have it. Nay, nay, my 
 
 bird my heart's delight ! Mother will give thee sweets 
 
 1 For the most part, sugar animals, such as are sold at English fairs.
 
 212 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 enough. Kick not so, life of my life ! Ganesh ! how he 
 cries ! He will burst : and 'tis thy fault. Hush, hush ! 
 See, here is mother's milk. At! wicked one ! wouldst bite? 
 Ye gods, but 'tis a veritable Toork for temper.' 
 
 Hushing the child in her arms, she walked up and down, 
 followed by Saraswati's calm, big black eyes. 
 
 ' Thou art a fool, Maya,' she said slowly, putting down the 
 sugar horse. 'Copal's sweets would not have hurt the 
 child so much as thy spitefulness.' Then she turned to her 
 work again among the niches. When she rose the basket 
 was in her hand, the threads were broken, and the cover 
 tilted as if something slender and supple had been allowed 
 to slip out. Perhaps it had, for behind the sugar horse, 
 standing in the lowermost niche, two specks of fire gleamed 
 from the shadow. It was growing dark now, but the 
 harvest moon riding high in the heavens and the now 
 flaming fire aided the dying daylight, and a curious radiance, 
 backed by velvety shadows, lay on everything. 
 
 ' I must sweep out the niches thoroughly to-morrow,' she 
 said indifferently. ' Methought just now I heard the rustle 
 as of a jelabi. 1 They love to hide in such places, and 
 therefore I bid thee but yesterday see to their cleansing. 
 But, sure, what work is done in this house mine must be 
 the hand to do it. See to your lentils, sister ; methinks 
 they burn at the bottom.' 
 
 Maya, with a petulant shrug of her shoulders, set down 
 the child. 
 
 ' Such work spoils my hands, and and folk like them 
 pretty.' 
 
 1 Echis carinata, the Indian viper. It lies coiled in a true-lovers' 
 knot, rustling its scales one against the other. It is the most vicious 
 and irritable of all Indian snakes.
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 213 
 
 Even she, town born and town bred, did not dare before 
 this grave-eyed peasant woman to name her husband's name 
 in such a connection, 1 but Saraswati understood the allu- 
 sion, and the simple, straightforward naturalism drawn 
 from ages of rural life which was her heritage, rose up in 
 arms against such depravity. But even as she lashed her- 
 self to revenge by the thought, everything that was stable 
 seemed to shift, all that moved to stand still. Her heart 
 ceased beating, the walls span round, the moon quivered, 
 the flames grew rigid. Ah, no ! one thing that moved would 
 not pause. Chujju had caught sight of the sugar horse, and 
 was creeping towards it, now on his little fat hands, now 
 tottering on his little fat feet, his glistening eyes fixed on 
 the niche which held those gleaming specks of fire. 
 
 No ! nothing was too bad for Maya j and Dhunnu, the 
 wise woman, had been right when she said that the charm 
 lay in the child. It must be so and death was nought. 
 There ! he was close now, one little hand stretched out, the 
 dimples showing the Ah ! 
 
 A cry, fierce, almost imperative, and Saraswati had him in 
 her arms, while something slim and grey fell from the niche 
 in its spring, and wriggled behind a pile of brushwood. 
 
 1 1 saw its eyes,' she gasped, still straining the child to 
 her ample bosom, when Gurditta, brought thither by Maya's 
 screams of ' Snake ! snake ! ' stood beside her, his breath 
 coming fast, his manliness stirred to its depths. 
 
 Maya saw the danger swiftly. 'Give him to me,' she 
 clamoured. ' O husband, make her give him to me. She 
 would kill him if she could. She put it there I saw her 
 put it there I swear it.' 
 
 1 A husband's name should never be mentioned by a wife, especially 
 in matters referring to herself.
 
 214 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 Saraswati turned on her in calm contempt. ' Thou liest, 
 O Maya ; since Time began, spirit of deceit and mother of 
 illusion. Thou didst not see me put it there.' 
 
 Then, with the same dignity, she turned to the man. 
 
 ' Master ! Take the child. He is safe. This much is 
 true, I saved him.' 
 
 That night, when the moon still shone in the cloudless 
 sky, Saraswati, her veil wrapped closely round her, stole 
 softly from the homestead. Past the resting oxen, out 
 among the serried battalions of maize and millet, where the 
 tall sheaves, lying prone on the ground, looked like the 
 bodies of those who had fallen in the day's fight ; down 
 on the sun-cracked borders of the tank, whence the water 
 was sinking swiftly, now the rain had ceased ; by the 
 ghostly peepul trees, shorn of their branches which the 
 camels love, and looking weird and human with great arms 
 stretched skywards ; so on to the burning ghat beyond, 
 with its little cones of mud marking the spot of each funeral 
 pyre, and the twinkling lights set here and there by pious 
 survivors. Saraswati drew her veil tighter and sped faster 
 as she passed through the more recent ashes, as yet un- 
 covered, but swept into little heaps; and there horrible 
 sight ! still scattered, with the uncalcined bones gleaming 
 in the moonlight, and a faint line of smoke still circling 
 upwards, lay the most recent of all. That must be old 
 Anant Ram, the khuttri (merchant) who had died that 
 morning an evil man, come to his end. 
 
 She was trembling ere she reached the hut where Dhun 
 Devi, the wise woman, kept watch and ward over the ashes 
 It was a miserable shanty, where she found the old woman 
 asleep before a large iron pot, supported on a trivet. Be-
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 215 
 
 neath it some cow-dung cakes smouldered slowly, yet not 
 so slowly but that every now and again a blood-red bubble 
 showed on the contents of the pot. A flaring oil-lamp, 
 filched, doubtless, from those outside, stood in a smoke- 
 blackened niche, and by its light you could see festoons of 
 dank, blood-red drapery clinging to a rope, while, with a 
 drip, drip, drip, something fell upon the floor something 
 which ran in rills right out to the moonlight, and, sinking 
 into the sand, stained it blood-red ; a ghastly setting to the 
 wise woman's crouching figure, even though Saraswati knew 
 that Mai Dhunnu was engaged in no more nefarious occu- 
 pation than dyeing the webs of her ignorant neighbours 
 with madder. 
 
 The old crone stood up hastily, then sank to her low 
 stool again when she had peered into her visitor's face. 
 ' Thou wilt not tell,' she whispered in a hoarse croak, which, 
 coming in reality from a throat affection, vastly enhanced 
 her claims to wisdom in the eyes of the villagers. ' Thou 
 art of the old style; not like these apes of to-day, with 
 their dog-eared books and their dyes which fade before a 
 January sun.' The chuckle she gave suited her surround- 
 ings well ; so did the claw-like hand she laid suddenly on 
 Saraswati's firm arm. ' Well, daughter ! Hast plucked up 
 courage ? Hast learned to trust the wisdom of old Dhun 
 Devi?' 
 
 Saraswati shook her head. 'Thou must find other 
 wisdom for me, mother,' she said briefly. 'Such is not 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Obstinate ! I tell thee 'tis the glamour of the child.' 
 
 "Tis not the child, though the gods know the poison 
 hath bit deeper somehow since he came. Lo ! I have tried 
 it, and 'tis not my way. Nor would I kill her. That were
 
 216 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 too trivial, seeing she is not worth life. I want but my 
 share. It is empty here, emptier than ever, somehow, 
 since the boy was born.' 
 
 She clasped her strong hands above her heart. The 
 glow of the fire, spreading as the old woman fanned it with 
 the tremulous breath of age, lit up the big black brows 
 knit above the puzzled black eyes. 
 
 Dhun Devi straightened her bent back, and looked at her 
 companion critically. 
 
 ' Life is more than the shadow of a passing bird to such 
 as thou, O Saraswati! 'Tis not wise. For death is 
 nought, and life is nought. The soul of man circles ever, 
 like the potter's wheel, upon its pivot. Have I not seen 
 it? Have I not known it? Did I not go through the 
 night of a thousand dangers myself, and bring five stalwart 
 sons into the day ? Where are they ? Have they not 
 passed into the dark again ? Have not my hands piloted 
 many through the Sorrowful Hour and sent many from it ? 
 Lo ! the snake would not have harmed the child.' 
 
 ' I care not if thou speakest truth or not, O mother, 
 though thou art learned above women in such thoughts, I 
 know,' muttered Saraswati sullenly, with drooping head. 
 ' Only this I know, that way is not mine. There must be 
 others. See ! I have brought thee my golden armlet. 
 DAun 1 was ever as a sign-post to Dhun Devi. Is't not 
 so?' 
 
 The old dame's fingers closed greedily on the bribe, 
 careless of the open sneer which accompanied it. ' Ways ? ' 
 she echoed. 'Of a surety there are ways, but none so 
 simple as death.' 
 
 1 Ay,' said Saraswati quietly, ' I have thought of that. 
 1 Worldly wealth.
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 217 
 
 The well is deep, and the little feathery ferns in the crannies 
 look kind. But they would say Saraswati, the Jatni, had 
 been ousted from her own well-land by a stranger, and that 
 is not so. I heed not the girl ; deceit is her portion. "Pis 
 something here.' Again she laid her hand on her heart 
 with a puzzled look. ' Nor do I want him only. Couldst 
 thou not turn the child's mind to me, so that, seeing his 
 love, Gurditta would hold me dearer also ? ' 
 
 Dhun Devi shook her head, but her keen, bright old eyes 
 were on the other's face. 
 
 ' There is a way,' she whispered, after a pause, ' but death 
 lurks in it often with such as thou.' 
 
 ' Whose death ? ' 
 
 'Thine own. Do not all women know how the Sorrow- 
 ful Hour ' 
 
 Saraswati caught the withered wrist in a fierce clasp. 
 
 ' Mai /' she panted ; ' Mai Dhunnu ! Dost speak of the 
 Sorrowful Hour to me to me after all these years ! Is 
 there hope hope even yet ? ' 
 
 ' If thou art not afraid ' 
 
 'Afraid!' 
 
 It was sunrise in the homestead, and a new harvest was 
 waiting in battalions for the sickle. The jasmine fountain 
 showered its green stems to the ground, but it was bare of 
 blossoms. They hung in chaplets from the thatch screen 
 beneath which, on that Stirling August night, a woman had 
 been passing through her Sorrowful Hour. In the dim 
 dawn the little oil-lamps set about the bed flickered un- 
 certainly in the breeze which heralds the day, and glinted 
 now and again on the lucky knife suspended by the twist 
 of lucky threads above the pillow. In a brazier hard by
 
 2i8 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 
 
 some pungent spices scattered upon charcoal sent up a clear 
 blue line, like the last faint smoke from a funeral pyre. 
 All that wisdom could do Dhun Devi had done, but a dead 
 girl-baby lay between Saraswati and the harvest visible 
 through the gap in the plaited palisade. The midwife 
 shook her head as she peered into the unconscious face on 
 the pillow. 
 
 ' Only a girl, after all the fuss,' came Maya's high, clear 
 voice, as she sat cuddling Chujju in her soft round arms 
 Chujju, whom the gods had spared. 'To die for a girl 
 for a dead girl, too what foolishness ! But 'twas her own 
 fault. 'Tis bad enough for us young ones, and dear pay- 
 ment, after all, for the fun ; and she had escaped all these 
 years ' 
 
 Dhun Devi's claw-like fingers stopped the liquid flow of 
 words. 
 
 ' Go, infamous ! ' she whispered fiercely. ' Such as thou 
 are not mothers. Thou art Maya, the desire of the flesh. 
 Go, lest I curse the child for thy sake.' 
 
 With a little shriek of dismay, half real, half pretended, 
 the girl gathered the sleeping child in her arms and dis- 
 appeared into the huts. 
 
 'The wheel slackens on its pivot,' muttered the old 
 woman, stooping again over the still form on the bed. ' I 
 must get her to Mother Earth, as a seed to the soil, ere it 
 stops.' 
 
 She stood at the gap and called. The fine fretwork of 
 the acacia branches showed against the growing blue of the 
 sky. The little golden puffs sent their violet perfume into 
 the air. A bird sat among them, chirruping to its mate. 
 
 ' Come,' she said, and the tall bearded man followed her 
 meekly. Together he at the head, she at the feet they
 
 THE SORROWFUL HOUR 219 
 
 laid Saraswati on the ground with the dead child, half 
 hidden in her veil, still between her and the great stretch of 
 harvest beyond. 
 
 Suddenly, roused by the movement, she stirred slightly, 
 and the big black eyes opened. Dhun Devi gripped the 
 man's hand as if to detain him. 
 
 ' The child is it well with the child ? ' came in a faint 
 voice. 
 
 Dhun Devi's clasp gripped firmer ; a look recalling long 
 past years came to her face. 
 
 ' Yea, mother, it is well ; thy son sleeps in thine arms' 
 
 Then, craning up from her crooked old age to reach his 
 ear, she whispered swiftly 
 
 ' Say 'tis so if thou art a man, and bid her God-speed 
 on her journey.' 
 
 So, with her husband's hand in hers, a child in her arms, 
 and a smile on her face, came the end of Saraswati's 
 Sorrowful Hour.
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 THEY were an odd couple. The very trains as they sped 
 past level crossing number 57 gave a low whistle as if the 
 oddities struck them afresh each time, and Craddock 
 always went to the side of the cab, whence he could see 
 those two motionless figures on either side of the regula- 
 tion barrier which stood so causelessly in the middle of the 
 sandy waste. 
 
 There must have been a road somewhere, of course, else 
 there would have been no level crossing, but it was not 
 visible to the passing eye. Perhaps the drifting sand had 
 covered it up ; perhaps no traffic ever did come that way, 
 and there really was no need for old Dhunnu and his 
 granddaughter to stand like ill-matched heraldic supporters 
 displaying a safety signal. But they did. 
 
 They had done so ever since Dhunni for the name had 
 descended to her in the feminine gender was steady 
 enough on her feet to stand alone, and before that, even, she 
 had given ' line clear ' from her grandfather's arms. For it 
 was always ' line clear.' No train ever stopped at level 
 crossing number 57 of the desert section. Why should 
 they ? There was nothing to be seen far or near save 
 sand, and the little square concrete-roofed, red-hot furnace 
 of a place, suggestive of a crematorium, which happened on 
 that particular railway to be the approved pattern for a 
 
 gatekeeper's shelter. 
 220
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 221 
 
 It was very hot in summer, very cold in winter, and that 
 was perhaps the reason why old Dhunnu suffered so much 
 from malarial fever in the autumn months ; those months 
 which might otherwise have been so pleasant in the return- 
 ing cool of their nights, and their promise of another harvest. 
 The old man used to resent this fever in a dull sort of way, 
 because it was so unnecessary in that rainless tract. To 
 quiver and shake in a quartian ague when the battalions of 
 maize are pluming themselves on their own growth, and the 
 millet-seeds, tired of cuddling close to each other, are 
 beginning to start on lengthening stemlets to see the world, 
 was legitimate ; but it was quite another thing to find a 
 difficulty in keeping a signal steady when there was not a 
 drop of moisture for miles and miles, save in the little 
 round well which had been dug for the gatekeeper's use. 
 
 Dhunnu, however, had served the Sirkar for long years 
 in the malarial tracts under the hills before he came as a 
 pensioner to level-crossing 57, and when once the marsh- 
 monarch lays firm hold of a man he claims him as a 
 subject for all time. It was this difficulty, no doubt, in 
 keeping a signal steady which, joined to the intense 
 pleasure it gave to the child, had first led to little Dhunni 
 holding the green flag, while Dhunnu on the other side of 
 the gate kept the furled red one in his shaking hand ready 
 for emergencies. Then the train would sweep past like a 
 great caterpillar with red and green eyes, and red and green 
 lights in its tail, and Craddock would look out of the cab, 
 and say to himself that time must be passing, since the 
 child was shooting up into a girl. And still it was always 
 the green flag ; always ' line clear.' 
 
 It became monotonous even to Dhunni, who had been 
 brought up to it, and while her chubby hand clutched the
 
 222 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 baton firmly she would look resentfully across at the furled 
 red flag in her grandfather's shaking hand. 
 
 ' Lo ! nanna,' she said spitefully, ' some day it will shake 
 so that the cloth will shake itself out, and then ' 
 
 He interrupted her with dignity, but in the tone in which 
 a titmouse might reproach a tiger-cat ; for Dhunni, as he 
 knew to his cost, had a temper. 
 
 'By God's blessing, O Dhun Devi, that will never be, 
 since east and west is there no cause sufficient to check 
 progress ; and as that is by order the green flag, so the 
 green flag it will be.' 
 
 Dhunni made no reply in words. She simply flung the 
 safety signal in the dust and danced on it with a certain 
 pompous vigour which made the whitey-brown rag of a 
 petticoat she wore as sole garment cease even its preten- 
 sions to be called a covering. For they were very poor 
 these two; that was evident from the lack of colour in 
 their clothing, which made them mere dusty brown shadows 
 on the background of brownish dust. 
 
 ' It shall be the red one some day, nanna \ Yea ! some 
 day it shall be the red flag, and then the train will stop, 
 and then and then,' she gave one vindictive stamp to 
 clinch the matter and walked off with her head in the air. 
 The old man watched her retreating figure with shocked 
 admiration, then picked up the dishonoured flag, dusted it, 
 and rolled it up laboriously. 
 
 ' Lo ! ' he muttered as a half gratified smile claimed his 
 haggard face, ' she is of the very worst sort of woman that 
 the Lord makes. A virtuous man need be prepared for 
 such as she, so 'tis well she is betrothed to a decent house. 
 Meanwhile in the wilderness she can come to no harm.' 
 
 So far as the displaying of danger signals went, Dhunni
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 223 
 
 herself was forced to admit the truth of this proposition, 
 for even when the old man lay quivering and quaking, he 
 kept the key of the box in which the red flag was locked 
 safely stowed away in his waistcloth. Once she tried to 
 steal it, and when discovered in the act, took advantage of 
 his prostration to argue the matter out at length ; her posi- 
 tion being that the train itself must be as tired of going 
 on as she was of watching it. Whereupon he explained to 
 her with feverish vividness the terrible consequences which 
 followed on the unrighteous stopping of trains, to all of 
 which she acquiesced with the greatest zest, even suggest- 
 ing additional horrors, until it became a sort of game of 
 brag between them as to whose imagination would go the 
 furthest. 
 
 Finally, as she brought him a cup of water from the well, 
 she consoled both herself and him with the reflection that 
 some day he must die of the fever, and then of course it 
 would not matter to him if the train stopped or not, while 
 she could satisfy herself as to whether those funny white 
 people who looked out of the windows were real, or only 
 stuffed dolls. 
 
 ' Art budzart I ' he whimpered as he lay prostrate and 
 perspiring. ' Have I not told thee dozens of times they 
 are sahib logues ? have I not seen them ? have I ' 
 
 ' Trra,' replied Dhunni derisively, ' that may be. I have 
 not, but I mean to some day.' 
 
 Then the old man, adding tears of weakness to the 
 general dissolution, begged her, if a train must be stopped, 
 to stop a 'goods,' or even a 'mixed.' She argued this 
 point also at length, till the fever-fiend leaving him, Dhunnu 
 resumed his authority and threatened to whack her, where- 
 upon she ran away, like a wild thing, into the desert.
 
 224 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 It was a certain method of escape from the slow retribu- 
 tion of the old man, but as often as not she would return 
 ere his anger had evaporated sooner than miss any one of 
 the four caterpillars with the red and green eyes and the 
 green and red lights in their tails. They had a fascination 
 for her which she could not resist, so she would take her 
 whacking and then stand, bruised and sore, but brimful of 
 curiosity, to give ' line clear,' as it were, to a whole world 
 of which she knew nothing. Even that was better than 
 having nothing to do with it at all. 
 
 And then, as her grandfather grew older and feebler, and 
 required a longer time to fetch the week's supply from the 
 distant hamlet far over the edge of the sandy horizon, there 
 came at last a day when she stood all alone in the very 
 centre of the closed gate holding out the green flag and 
 salaaming obsequiously, for that was what grandfather had 
 done on one or two occasions when, owing to inconceivable 
 wickedness, she had been made to watch the passing of 
 civilisation while tied to a distant bed leg. 
 
 Craddock from his cab noticed the grave mimicry and 
 smiled, whereupon Dhunni smiled back brilliantly. And 
 then something happened which curiously enough changed 
 her whole estimate of civilisation, and left her with such an 
 expression on her face that when her grandfather returned 
 half an hour afterwards, his first thought was for the red 
 flag. The key was safe in his waistcloth, yet still he began 
 hurriedly 
 
 'Thou didst not ' 
 
 * Nay,' she burst out in fury, ' I did nought. But they ! 
 nanna, I hate them ! I hate them ! ' 
 
 Then it turned out that the white dolls had flung a stone 
 at her a hard stone yes, the pink and white child-dolls
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 225 
 
 had flung a stone at her just because she had smiled. So 
 with hands trembling with rage she produced in evidence a 
 large chunk of chocolate. 
 
 Dhunnu looked at it in superior wisdom, for there had 
 been white children sometimes in that surveying camp 
 below the hills. 
 
 ' Tis no stone,' he said ; c 'tis a foreign sweetmeat. 
 They meant well, being ignorant that we eat not such 
 things. When they first come across the black water they 
 will even fling bread.' 
 
 As he spoke he threw the offending morsel into the 
 desert and spat piously. Dhunni looked after it with 
 doubt and regret in her eyes. . 
 
 ' I deemed it a stone,' she said at last. * Think you it 
 would have been sweet, like our sweetmeats ? ' 
 
 ' Ari budzart I ' cried the old man again. ' Lakshmi 
 be praised thou didst take bread for a stone, else wouldst 
 thou have eaten it and have been a lost soul.' 
 
 ' I would have tried if I liked it, anyhow,' said Dhunni 
 shamelessly. And that night, while her grandfather slept 
 in the red-hot furnace to avoid the chillness of dawn, the 
 moon found something else on the wide waste of sand, 
 beside the crematorium and the regulation barrier, to yield 
 her the tribute of a shadow. It was Dhunni on all fours 
 seeking high and low for the chunk of chocolate, and when 
 she found it she sat up with it in her little brown paws and 
 nibbled away at it for all the world like a squirrel; the 
 result of which experiment being that she smiled brilliantly 
 at every train from that time forth, perhaps in hopes of 
 more chocolate, perhaps from gratitude for past chocolate, 
 perhaps because she really was beginning to be more 
 sensible. 
 
 p
 
 226 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 'It is being born to her in lavish manner,' said old 
 Dhunnu boastfully to an emissary of the future mother-in- 
 law, who came as far as the village to inquire of the future 
 bride's growth and health. 'Go, tell them she gives "line 
 clear " as well as I do, but that she is not yet of an age for 
 the married state.' 
 
 In his heart of hearts, however, he knew very well that 
 the time could not be far distant when he could no longer 
 delay parting with the girl, who was fast shooting up into a 
 tall slip of a thing. And then what should he do, for the 
 fever fiend had a fast grip on him now a firmer hold than 
 he had upon life. Sometimes for days and days he could 
 scarcely creep to the gate when the mail train passed, 
 while, as for the ' goods ' and ' mixed,' these low-caste trains 
 he left entirely to Dhunni's mercy ; and safely, since the 
 desire for the danger-signal seemed to have passed with 
 the possession of responsibility and chocolate ! 
 
 Thus Dhunni, far from the eyes of the world, which would 
 have sent her remorselessly into the slavery of mother-in- 
 law, grew tall and slender, and even in her old dust- 
 coloured skirt and bodice caused Craddock the engine- 
 driver, as he sped by, an occasional pang of regret as he 
 remembered another tall girl with velvety eyes. 
 
 So time passed until, as luck would have it, a wedding- 
 party from the village where the future mother-in-law 
 resided chose to try a short cut over the desert, and 
 actually crosbed the line at level crossing number 57; the 
 result being that Dhunni's readiness for the married state 
 became known, and a fortnight or so afterwards she sat 
 looking at the new suit of clothes and some jewels which 
 had been sent to her, with an intimation that the bridal 
 procession would come for her in a week's time.
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 227 
 
 The presents were poor enough in themselves, but then 
 Dhunni had never seen anything so bright before; except 
 of course the red flag. And though the little round mirror 
 set in the bridal thumb-ring does not allow of much being 
 seen at a time, Dhunni saw enough to make her eyes still 
 more velvety, her smile still more bewitching. 
 
 1 Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,' grumbled her 
 grandfather in equivalent Hindi, but it had no effect on the 
 girl. All that day she went about with an odd, half-dazed 
 look on her face, and when the women who had brought 
 the presents left in the afternoon, she went and sat down 
 by the gate feeling vaguely that it was some one else and 
 not the old Dhunnu who was sitting there. The mail train 
 had passed an hour before, and the ' goods ' was not due 
 till midnight, so there was no chance of anything to inter- 
 rupt the level monotony she knew so well; and yet as she 
 sat leaning against the gate-post with the green flag beside 
 her, she was waiting for something for what, she did not 
 know. But the certainty that life held something new was 
 thrilling to her very finger-tips. 
 
 It was a yellow sunset full of light and peace. Then out 
 of it came suddenly a faint roll as of distant thunder. She 
 was on her feet in an instant, listening, waiting. Ah ! this 
 was new, certainly. This she had never seen before. 
 An engine with a single carriage coming full speed out of 
 the golden West. Was she to give 'line clear' to this? 
 or 
 
 The sound of a girl's laugh rang out into the light, and a 
 scarlet veil, deftly twisted round a baton, hung clear into 
 the line. 
 
 ' What in the world's the matter ? ' asked an English 
 boy, as Craddock and the Westinghouse brake combined
 
 228 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 brought the final quiver to the great shining flywheel. 
 He was a tall boy, fair-haired, blue-eyed, imperious. The 
 girl had given a little gasp at the look on his face as he 
 had leapt from the still moving train to come towards her, 
 though she now stood looking at him boldly, the improvised 
 signal still in her hand. 
 
 ' What is it, Craddock ? Ask her. You understand their 
 lingo, I don't.' 
 
 Craddock, leaning over the side of the cab, surveyed the 
 picture with a magisterial air. ' Sorry I brought 'er up, sir, 
 tho' seein' a red rag it's kind o' second natur' when your 
 'and's within reach o' a brake, sir. And then she never 
 done it before not all these years.' 
 
 ' But what is it ? I don't understand ' 
 
 ' Saving your presence, sir,' replied Craddock cheerfully, 
 ' there ain't no reason you shouldn't, for it don't take any 
 knowledge o' the lingo, sir ; no more o' any kind o' know- 
 ledge but what you 're up to, sir, being, as the sayin' is, 
 born o' Adam o' Adam an' Eve. It 's mischief, sir, that's 
 what it is mischief, and there ain't much difference in the 
 colour o' that, so far as I see, sir.' 
 
 The boy's face showed nothing but angry, almost incredu- 
 lous, surprise for an instant, then something else crept into 
 it, softening it. ' By George ! Craddock,' he said argu- 
 mentatively, 'I'd no notion they could look er like that. 
 She is really quite a pretty girl.' He could not help a 
 smile somehow ; whereat, to his surprise, she smiled affec- 
 tionately back at him, the deliberately bewitching smile 
 born of that chunk of chocolate. It recalled him to a 
 sense of injured importance. 
 
 ' This is most annoying, and when so much depends on 
 my catching up the mail,' he continued. ' She will be
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 229 
 
 stopping the next train, too, I suppose ; but it can't be 
 allowed, and she ought to be punished. I '11 take her 
 along and leave her at the first station for inquiry, they 
 can easily send another signaller by the down train. Tell 
 her, Craddock.' 
 
 ' Better pukro 'er 'ath, 1 sir,' remarked the latter sagely as 
 he prepared to descend, ' else she might 'oof it into the 
 wilderness like one of them ravine deer. Just you pukro 
 'er 'ath, sir, while I samjhab^ her.' 
 
 Dhunni, however, did not attempt to run ; she only shrank 
 a little when the boy's white hand closed on hers. After 
 that she stood listening to Craddock's violent recrimina- 
 tions quite calmly. In truth she expected them, for in 
 those old games of brag with nanna they had gone further 
 than words up to hanging, in fact. Yet still not so far as 
 this queer tremor of half-fearful, half-joyful, expectation. 
 That was new, but pleasant, and filled her eyes with such 
 light that Craddock stroked his corn-coloured beard and 
 shook his head mournfully. 
 
 ' She 's a deal 'arder than I took 'er for, seein' her, always 
 as it were, sir, from a different sp'eer. A deal worse. If 
 I 'd a pair o' bracelets ready they might give 'er a turn, but 
 I Ve told 'er she '11 go to 'ell in every lingo I know, for fear 
 she mightn't understand, and I'm blest if she care a hang!' 
 
 The boy gave a resentful laugh. 
 
 ' I'll make her care before I 've done with her. There ! 
 you there ! what 's your name ? stick her with you into 
 the cook-room. No ; shove her into my carriage and I '11 
 do chowkidar* till I can hand her over. Now Craddock, 
 on with the steam, or I shall miss my connection. Con- 
 found the girl ! ' 
 
 1 Take her hand. 2 Explain to. 8 Watchman.
 
 230 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 It was easy to confound her in the abstract ; easy also 
 to glower at the offender crouched in the off corner before 
 you threw yourself into the arm-chair in the other and 
 began to read the last number of a magazine by the wan- 
 ing light. But what was to be done when it was gradually 
 being borne in on you that a pair of velvety eyes, wild as a 
 young deer's, were watching you fearlessly. She was a 
 good plucked one, at any rate. Craddock had said she 
 was as hard as nails and a bad lot. Well, he ought to 
 know ; but she did not look bad, not at all. The eyes 
 were good eyes, full of straightforward curiosity, nothing 
 more. There she was, bending down to try the texture of 
 the carpet with her finger, as if nothing had occurred the 
 little monkey ; and what white teeth she had when she met 
 his involuntary smile with another. 
 
 After that, under cover of his book, he watched her 
 furtively. It was what is called an inspection carriage, a 
 regular room on wheels, and the boy, new to the honour 
 and glory of such a thing, had hung pictures on its walls, 
 curtains to its windows. There was even a vase of flowers 
 beside the newly lit lamp on the centre table. The lamp 
 had a pink shade too, which threw a rosy light on every- 
 thing, above all on that slender figure crouching in the far 
 corner. And outside the golden sunset was fast fading 
 into cold greys. 
 
 ' You want to know what that is,' he said suddenly, in 
 English, laying down his book and pointing in the direc- 
 tion where her eyes had been fixed. An expectant look 
 came to them, and he stood for a moment irresolute. 
 Then he rose with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, 
 crossed to the small harmonium which lay open, set his 
 foot to the pedal and struck a single note. She drew
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 23! 
 
 back from the sound, just, he thought, as she had drawn 
 back from his hand, and then looked at him as she had 
 looked at him then. By Jove ! she had eyes ! 
 
 Still looking at her he sat down to the instrument 
 and played a chord or two out of sheer curiosity. Her 
 finger went up to her lip, she leaned forward, a picture 
 of glad surprise. And then a sudden fancy seized him. 
 He had a tenor voice, and there was a song upon the 
 desk. Singing in a train, even in a single carriage on a 
 smooth line, was a poor performance, but it would be 
 fun to try. 
 
 'The Devout Lover,' of all songs in the world! The 
 humour, the bitter irony of it struck him keenly and 
 decided him. And as he sang he felt with a certain anger 
 that he had never sung it better might never sing it so 
 well again. 
 
 When he turned to her again it struck him that she 
 recognised this also, for she was leaning forward half on 
 her knees, her hands stretched out over the seat. No one 
 could have listened more eagerly. 
 
 In sudden petulance he rose and went to the window. 
 There was only a bar of gold now on the horizon, and, 
 thank Heaven ! they had come faster than he thought 
 or he wasted more time in tomfoolery for they were 
 already entering the broken ground. That must be the 
 first ravine, dark as a ditch; so ere long he would be 
 able to get rid of those curious eyes. Powers above! 
 Was fate against him? Was he never to arrive at his 
 destination? And what did Craddock mean by putting 
 the brake hard on again when they were miles away even 
 from a level crossing? He was out on the footboard as 
 they slackened, shouting angry inquiries long before Crad-
 
 4J2 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 dock's voice could possibly come back to him through the 
 lessening rattle. 
 
 ' Danger signal comin' down the line. On a trolley, I 
 think, sir. Somethin's wrong.' 
 
 Apparently there was, and yet the English voice which 
 sang out of the darkness had a joyful ring of triumph in 
 it, and the friendly hand which followed the voice, after 
 a minute or two, shook the boy's hand amid warm con- 
 gratulations on the narrowest escape; for no one had 
 thought it could possibly be done that warning could 
 possibly be given in time. It was the veriest piece of 
 luck. Briefly, just after the mail had passed, a big cul- 
 vert had given not two miles further down the line. They 
 had telegraphed the information both ways of course, 
 though, as no train was due for hours, there was plenty 
 of time for repairs. Then had come the return wire, telling 
 of the boy's start to overtake the mail on urgent business. 
 Every one had said it was too late ; and, after all, it had 
 been a matter of five minutes or less. The veriest luck 
 indeed ! If they had been five minutes earlier . . . ! 
 
 The boy looked solemnly at Craddock, and the light 
 of the red lamp, dim as it was, showed a certain emotion 
 in both faces. 
 
 'That's about it, sir,' said Craddock, a trifle huskily. 
 'An' I tellin' her she'd go to 'ell! Lordy ! ain't it like 
 a woman to have the last word ? ' 
 
 He said no more then, but when it had been decided 
 to return the way they had come, and take a branch line 
 further down, and when the trolley with its red signal had 
 slipped back silently into the night, he came and stood 
 at the carriage door for a moment. And as he looked 
 at the figure crouching contentedly in the corner, he
 
 A DANGER SIGNAL 233 
 
 stroked his beard thoughtfully again, and went on as if 
 no interval had come between his last words and his pre- 
 sent ones. 
 
 ' But she saved our lives, sir, by stoppin' us, that 's what 
 she done, sure as my name 's Nathaniel James, and when 
 a girl done that, a man 's got nothin' left but, as the sayin' 
 is, to act fair an' square by her fair an' square.' 
 
 'Just so, Craddock/ replied the boy, with a queer stiff- 
 ness in his voice. ' We '11 drop her at the gate again, 
 and and it shall be just just as if it as if it hadn't 
 happened.' Then he added in a lower voice, 'Spin along 
 as fast as you can, man, and let 's have done with it.' 
 
 'I won't leave her a bounce for a whistle, sir,' said 
 Craddock laconically. 
 
 So the carriage with the rosy light streaming through 
 the windows shot forth into the darkness in front, and the 
 sparks from the engine drifted into the darkness behind, 
 and the roar and the rush drowned all other sounds. 
 Perhaps Craddock whistled in the cab to make up for 
 not being able to whistle on his engine. Perhaps the boy 
 sang songs again in the carriage because he could not 
 speak to the girl. Anyhow, they were both silent when 
 the flywheel quivered into rest once more beside level 
 crossing number 57. 
 
 'Stop a bit,' said a rather unsteady voice as a girl's 
 figure paused against the rosy light of the open door. 
 ' It 's too long a step. I '11 lift you down.' 
 
 Craddock, looking over the side, turned away and gave 
 a sympathising little cough as if to cover some slighter 
 sound. Perhaps he knew what would have happened if 
 he had been in the boy's place. 
 
 The next instant, some one sprang into the cab and
 
 234 A DANGER SIGNAL 
 
 turned the steam hard on, some one with a half-pained, 
 half-glad look on his face. 
 
 'Now then, Craddock, right we are !' 
 
 And Craddock, as he bent to look at the indicator, 
 answered, ' Right it is, sir ; fair and square. Full pressure 
 and no mischief come of it.' 
 
 'I hope not,' said the boy softly; 'but it is a bit hard 
 to know to know what is fair and square with with 
 some people.' 
 
 Perhaps he was right; for Dhunni stood gazing after 
 the red and green lights with a dazed look on her face. 
 The danger signal had come into her life the train had 
 stopped, and then and ?
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 THIS story began and ended in a public library. An odd, 
 forlorn little offshoot of progress, dibbled out beyond the 
 walls of a far-away Indian city, which drowsed through the 
 sunny to-day as it had drowsed through many a century 
 of sunny yesterdays. True it is that in a certain mimetic 
 and superficial manner Pooranabad had changed with the 
 changing years. It had evolved a municipal committee, 
 and this in its turn had given birth to various simulacra 
 of civilisation; but in effect the former was but the old 
 council of elders in modern guise, and the latter but 
 Jonah's gourd, springing up in a day or a night at the 
 bidding of some minor prophet from over the seas. They 
 came and went, these minor prophets, each with his theory, 
 his hobby; and even when Poorinabad knew them no 
 more, it could remember its rulers by the libraries and 
 band-stands, the public gardens, the schools, and the 
 museums they had left behind them. 
 
 The library itself stood in the midst of a newly laid-out 
 public garden, which but two summers before had been 
 a most evil-smelling tank at least, for nine months of the 
 year; the remaining three found it a shining lake flushed 
 with fresh rain and carpeted with pink lotus blossom. 
 But culture of all sorts had stepped in with drain-pipes, 
 bricks, mortar, flowers, and books, and the result was a 
 maze of winding walks, stubbly grass, and stunted bushes 
 
 235
 
 236 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 gathered round a square stuccoed building of one room 
 encircled by an arched verandah. To east and south 
 the deceptive walls and flat mud roofs of the native city 
 looked like towers against the sky. To west and north 
 stood avenues of shlshum trees, with here and there a 
 peep of the white bungalows wherein the minor prophets 
 dwelt and grew gourds. 
 
 Within, under the one roof hung with two punkahs, 
 stood two tables, the one littered with English magazines 
 and illustrated papers, the other bare, save for a few leaf- 
 lets of the native press, with high-sounding names and 
 full of still more lofty sentiments. The two bookcases, 
 one at each end of the room, showed the same well- 
 intentioned, but unsuccessful, impartiality ; for the eastern 
 one was nearly empty, while the western overflowed, 
 chiefly with novels; a dozen shelves of them to one of 
 miscellaneous literature, made up for the most part of 
 works on the Central Asian question and missionary 
 reports. The novels, however, had a solid appearance, 
 since most of them had been re-bound by the district 
 office bookbinder in the legal calf and boards which he 
 used also for the circulars and acts by which India is 
 governed. 
 
 Before this bookcase stood the only occupant of the 
 room, a tall, weedy boy of about fifteen a boy with 
 remarkably thin legs, somewhat of a stoop in his narrow 
 shoulders, and a supple brown finger travelling slowly 
 along the ill-spelt titles of the books ; ill-spelt, because 
 the Government bookbinder could hardly be expected to 
 grapple successfully with the title of a modern novel. 
 The hesitations of this brown finger might have served 
 as an index to the owner's taste, and showed a distinct
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 237 
 
 leaning towards sentiment. It lingered over several sug- 
 gestive titles, until it finally settled on something writ 
 large in three volumes. After which the boy, crossing 
 to a double desk midway between the tables, wrote in 
 the English register in a fine bold hand any clerk might 
 have envied 
 
 Amor Vincit Omnia. Govind Sahai, Kyasth. 
 
 So, with two volumes under his arm, and one held close 
 to his soft, short-sighted black eyes, Govind Sahai, of the 
 tribe of Kyasths, or scribes, made his way citywards down 
 one of the winding paths. Thus strolling along he was 
 typical of the great multitude of Indian boys of his age. 
 Boys who read great heavens ! what do they not read, 
 with their pale, intelligent faces close to the lettering? And 
 their thoughts? that is a mystery. 
 
 Govind Sahai's face was no exception to the rule; it 
 was young, yet old ; high-featured, yet gentle ; the ascetic 
 hollows in the temples belied by the long sweeping curves 
 in the mouth, and both these features neutralised by the 
 feminine oval of the cheek. He was the only son of a 
 widow, who, thanks to his existence, led a busy and con- 
 tented life in her father-in-law's otherwise childless house ; 
 for the honours of motherhood in India are great. Yet 
 she was poor beyond belief to Western ears. Across the 
 black water, in a Christian country, such poverty would 
 have meant misery, but in the old simplicity of Poorana"- 
 bad the little household managed to be happy ; above all, 
 in its hopes for the future, when Govind's education should 
 be over, and he be free to follow his hereditary trade as 
 a writer. His father had found his ancestral level, oddly 
 enough, in compiling sanitary statistics in an English office,
 
 238 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 until the cholera added one to the mortality returns by 
 carrying him off as a victim ; after which all the interest 
 of life to the inhabitants of the little courtyard and slip 
 of roof which Govind called home, centred in the clever 
 boy, who could only follow his father's trade if he suc- 
 ceeded in gaining the necessary pass; for education has 
 undermined heredity. So Govind worked hard for the 
 scholarship which would enable him to go to college. Day 
 after day he absorbed an amount of information which 
 was perfectly prodigious. Month after month found him 
 further and further adrift on the sea of knowledge. Even 
 in play-time he gorged himself on new ideas, as might be 
 seen by the library register. It was not only Amor Vincit 
 Omnia which showed on its pages, but many another 
 similar work 
 
 Lost for Love, Govind Sahai, Kyasth. 
 Love the Master, ,, 
 
 My Sweetheart, 
 
 One Life, One Love, 
 
 And so on down one column and up another, for the boy 
 read fast. 
 
 On this particular hot, dusty May morning he became 
 so interested in his last book that he sat down on the 
 parapet of the city's central sewer, and twining one thin 
 leg round the other plunged headlong into a sentimental 
 scene between two lovers, heedless of his 1 unsavoury en- 
 vironments. The interweaving of intellectual emotion and 
 material sensation pictured on the page seemed to this 
 boy, just verging upon manhood, to be an inspiration, lifting 
 the whole subject into a new world of pure passion. It 
 appealed, as a matter of fact, though he knew it not, both
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 239 
 
 to his inherited instincts and his acquired ideas, thus satis- 
 fying both. 
 
 ' My darling? said Victor, raising her sweet face to his, 
 and pressing a kiss on those pure, pale lips, ' love such as 
 ours is eternal. Earth has no power' et cetera, et cetera, 
 et cetera. The tears positively came into his eyes; he 
 seemed to feel the toucli of those lips on his, making him 
 shiver. 
 
 ' The little soft tendrils of her hair stirred with his breath 
 as Una, shrinking to his side, whispered, ' / am not afraid 
 when I am with you, my king. I feel so strong! so strong 
 to maintain the Right ! Strong to maintain our Love before 
 all the world! For Love is of Heaven, is it not, dear 
 heart?' ' Our Love is,' murmured Victor, once more raising 
 her pure, pale Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. 
 
 Yes, it was very beautiful, very exalting ; also very dis- 
 turbing to this inheritor of a nature built on simpler, more 
 direct lines. That ancestral past of his seemed brutally 
 bald beside this highly decorated castle of chivalry. 
 
 'Aha! Good evening, pupil Govind,' broke in the 
 accurate voice of Narayan Chand, headmaster of the 
 district school. 'You have, I am glad to see, availed 
 yourself of the advantages of the public library. With 
 what mental pabulum have you provided yourself this 
 summer's eve ? ' 
 
 As he spoke, he seated himself likewise on the parapet 
 of the sewer, and read over the boy's shoulder, 'Amor 
 Vincit Omnia.' Then his spectacled glance travelled down 
 the page, returning for comfort to the title ; that, at least, 
 smacked of learning. ' Ah, aha ! I see. Light literature. 
 Good for colloquial, and of paramount use in vivas* So
 
 240 AMOR V1NCIT OMNIA 
 
 far, well. For superiority of diction, nevertheless, and 
 valuability to grammar studies, give me Taller, Spectator, 
 and such classics.' 
 
 Govind closed his book in most unusual irritation. 
 ' Even in English literature, master-;//, new things may be 
 better than old.' 
 
 'Of that there is no possible doubt,' quoted master;/';, 
 with cheerful gravity. He was a most diligent reader of 
 the English papers, and used to sit at the library table 
 for hours of an evening devouring the critiques on Gilbert's 
 or Tennyson's last with undiscriminating absorption in the 
 formation and style of the sentence. His quotations were 
 in consequence more various than select. ' Of that there 
 can be no possible probable manner of doubt, as a modern 
 poet puts it tersely,' he repeated, tilting his embroidered 
 smoking-cap further from his forehead, and drawing the 
 black alpaca tails of his coat round his legs; 'yet still, 
 for all that, it is held, that to speak colloquially for 
 taking the cake of scholarship, the classics ' 
 
 Govind Sahai put his feet to the ground and the first 
 volume under his arm. 
 
 'Master-^'/, when one labours long days at cube roots, 
 then classics in the evening become excessive. Life is 
 not all learning ; life is love also.' 
 
 He was quoting from the book he had been reading. 
 
 1 Sits the wind in that quarter,' began Narayan sagely ; 
 then he looked at the boy reflectively and changed manner 
 and language. ' That brings to memory, my son,' he said 
 in Hindustani. 'When comes thy wedding procession? 
 I must speak to the virtuous widow that it come in vacation 
 time, so as not to interfere with study.' 
 
 A sullen indifference was on Govind's face.
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 241 
 
 'You need not fear, master;//; I mean to have the 
 scholarship. The wedding will make no difference.' 
 
 Narayan Chand smiled a superior smile. 
 
 'Nay, my sonj^it must it should for a time. So is 
 the vacation convenient. Thou canst return to school 
 when the festal season is over. Come, I will speak to 
 thy relations even now.' 
 
 The widow was sifting wheat a pleasant-faced little 
 dump of a woman, with dimples on her bare brown arms. 
 
 'Mother,' said Govind calmly, 'is grandfather in? The 
 master^// hath come about my wedding.' 
 
 ' What have men to say to such things ? ' she answered, 
 with a shrill laugh; 'go tell master//, heart of mine eyes, 
 that it is settled for the first week of vacation. Her people 
 were here but now. Hurri hail but I shall laugh and 
 cry to see thee ! There shall be nothing wanting at all ! 
 Flowers and sweets and merriment. Thy granny and I 
 have toiled and spun for it. And the bride sweeter than 
 honey. Fie ! Govind, be not shy with thy mother ! Think 
 of the bride she gives thee, and tell her thou art happy.' 
 
 She flung her arms round her tall son, kissing him and 
 plying him with questions till he smirked sillily. 
 
 ' Happy enough, mother,' he admitted, then felt Amor 
 Vincit Omnia' under his arm, and sighed. 'I would 
 much rather not be married ; at least, I think not. O 
 mother, I would she had fair hair and blue eyes !' 
 
 ' Lakshmi ! hear him ! Wouldst marry a fright, Govind ? 
 Wait the auspicious moment ; wait till I lift the veil. O 
 the beauty ! fresh from the court of Indra, wheat-coloured 
 and languishing with jewels and love.' 
 
 Govind shook his head. 
 
 ' Profane not the great name of Love.' He quoted to 
 Q
 
 242 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 himself, being forced to this secrecy by the fact that the 
 only language his mother understood has no word for 
 love as he meant it. So he added mournfully, 'I am 
 ready for my duty whenever you wish it, mother ; that is 
 enough.' 
 
 Nevertheless, he dreamt dreams that night as he lay 
 curled up on his short string bed, with the second volume 
 of Amor Vincit Omnia under the quilt, so as to be ready 
 for the early summer dawn. Out under the stars in the 
 bare, mud-walled courtyard, destitute to Western eyes of 
 all comfort, he dreamt the dreams of his race of a 
 gorgeously attired bride, shy, yet alluring, looking at him 
 for the first time. 
 
 'Thou hast a nightmare,' said his mother crossly, when 
 just before daybreak he woke them all by sitting up in his 
 bed and declaiming, Amor vincit omnia in a loud voice. 
 ' "Pis that book under thy head. Put it aside, and lie as 
 thy forefathers lay ; they dreamt not of pillows. So shalt 
 thou sleep sound and let others sleep also.' 
 
 She went yawning back to bed, and lay awake till dawn 
 brought work, counting over the savings she had made, 
 and calculating how much she could spare for flowers and 
 sweets and spiced dishes, for all the hitherto unknown 
 luxuries which, according to custom, were to make the 
 boy's life a dream of pleasure for a time. Only for a time, 
 since the scholarship had to be gained. 
 
 A month afterwards a red-curtained bridal palanquin 
 containing a mysterious bride was carried over the thresh- 
 old of the little mud courtyard, and Govind Sahai, with 
 a silver triptych on his forehead, his ears tasselled with 
 evil-smelling marigolds, his scented tinsel coat hung with 
 jasmine chaplets, dismounted from a pink-nosed pony
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 243 
 
 amidst an admiring crowd. That was an end of the 
 spectacle as far as the outside world was concerned. 
 Within it was only beginning for those two fond women 
 who had spun and scraped and saved for this great 
 occasion ever since the bridegroom was five years old. 
 Much had to be done ere they would sit down in proud 
 peace knowing that no possible enhancement of delight 
 had been omitted. The boy himself went through the 
 countless ceremonies, all tending towards an apotheosis of 
 the senses, with a certain shy dignity; perhaps the sight 
 of master-// doing wedding guest in a copper-coloured 
 alpaca coat gave him confidence by reminding him that 
 even the learned stoop to folly. He was pale, partly from 
 the turmeric baths, which are supposed to produce a com- 
 plexion favourable to feminine eyes, partly because he 
 really felt sick after the unusual sloth and sweets of the 
 last few days. So much for his physical state. Of his 
 mental condition this much may be presaged : that if 
 either his inherited instincts or his acquired convictions 
 had any reality whatever, it must have been chaos. 
 
 More chaotic than ever when, far into the night, after 
 endless tests and trials, Nihali, the mysterious bride, 
 proved beautiful as as ? 
 
 Well, the fact was sure ; only the comparison remained 
 doubtful. The inherited instincts said a ' peri,' the acquired 
 convictions an angel. Both, it will be observed, denizens 
 of another world. But then there are more c other worlds ' 
 than one. 
 
 'Master Narayan Chand hath sent to remind us that 
 school re-opens next week,' said Govind's mother when 
 nigh two months had passed; two months during which
 
 244 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 the path of life had been smoothed, scented, and decorated 
 for the special use of a boy and a girl. Govind Sahai 
 looked up from his work, which was, briefly, holding 
 Nihali's slim, ring-bedecked fingers. The fact that he did 
 so on pretence of teaching her to write is of secondary 
 importance. She was undoubtedly a very pretty girl, and 
 her delicate, refined face was at that moment full of 
 adoring tenderness for the lad beside her. Not thirteen 
 at the most, she was taller than English girls of that age, 
 but far more slender, with a figure still following the 
 straight lines of childhood. Graceful for all that, since her 
 small head poised well over a round throat, and the want 
 of contour was dexterously hidden by masses of jewellery, 
 gleaming through the tinsel-shot veil. Even from wrist to 
 elbow the thinness of the arm was concealed by the bridal 
 bracelets of white ivory lined with red, whilst the slender 
 ankles beneath the scarlet, gold-bordered petticoat were 
 hung with silver-gilt jingles. 
 
 A typical bride briefly, arrayed in all attractions, save for 
 the big nose-ring, with its dangling golden spoon hiding 
 the lip. Govind objected -to its presence, his mother to 
 its absence both, curiously enough, for the same reason 
 because it served as a check to indiscriminate kissing of 
 the bride. The pious widow used to blush over her son's 
 habit of saying good-bye to his wife when he had to leave 
 her for an hour or two. It might be English fashion, 
 warranted by all the love literature in creation ; it was not 
 decent. Neither did she approve of seeing them, as now, 
 seated together over that ridiculous farce of pothooks. 
 Marriage was one thing, love-making was another, so she 
 spoke sharply. 
 
 ' Well,' answered the boy, utterly unabashed, ' dost think
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 245 
 
 I have forgotten, amma jan? 1 Nay! Nihali hath been 
 hearing my holiday task half the morning. Hast not O 
 Nihali?' 
 
 His arm, under cover of the veil, stole round the girl's 
 waist and remained there a flagrant breach of decorum 
 which, fortunately for the female accomplice, remained 
 unnoticed by mother-in-law, who was busy over a knot in 
 a thread she was skeining from her unending pirn. Yet 
 Nihali, despite this awful lapse, looked sweet and good 
 enough to fill the heroine's part in any novel, and her 
 looks did not belie her. The past two months had been 
 a fever of delight to Govind. With the curious apathetic 
 resignation to the limitations of custom so noticeable in 
 clever Indian lads whose brains are full of theories, he had 
 accepted marriage in the spirit of his forebears, only to find 
 that Love (with a big L) such as he had read of in books 
 was actually within his reach. To be sure, in books the 
 object was chosen by the lover ; but what did that matter 
 in the end? So he used up all the stock-in trade of the 
 sentimental novelist for little Nihali's benefit, and she 
 listened to his rhapsodies on perfect marriage and twin 
 souls, her eyes set wide with wonder, admiration, and belief. 
 No ' first lady ' in white satin could have played her part 
 more prettily than this Indian child of thirteen, who from 
 her cradle had been taught to venerate her husband as a 
 god, and who now, in a sort of rapture, found herself the 
 object of a sentimental passion absolutely novel and be- 
 wildering. She nestled her sleek head on his shoulder, 
 telling him that she believed every word he said. And so 
 she did ; had he told her the world was flat, instead of 
 explaining to her with great pomp and precision that she 
 1 Mother dear.
 
 246 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 was living on an orange depressed at the poles, it would 
 have been the same to her. The world she lived in was 
 of his creating. Like most Hindu girls of the higher 
 classes, she had a marvellous memory, and Govind had 
 hardly known whether to be pleased or pained at the dis- 
 covery that, after hearing him read it over a few times, she 
 knew his repetition better than he did himself; yet, shy of 
 her own exploit, she only replied to his laughing reference 
 to the holiday task by a timid squeeze of the hand still 
 holding hers. 
 
 Mother-in-law broke the knot with a snap a habit with 
 the determined little woman, who thereinafter would twirl 
 the ends together as if nothing had happened. One twist 
 of the thumb, and all was as it had been. 
 
 'I know not what holiday tasks may mean,' she said 
 scornfully. 'In my time, work was work and play play. 
 So must it be now. Nihali's people have sent to ask when 
 she returns to them, after established custom. I have 
 answered, " When school begins.'" 
 
 They had been so supremely, so innocently happy over 
 their pothooks ! And now the consternation on their two 
 young faces was quite piteous. Mother-in-law, however, 
 found it scandalous. Did not all decent girls cry to go 
 home long before the honeymoon was over? Had not she 
 herself wept bitterly in her time; and there was Nihali 
 actually snivelling at the idea of leaving; before her hus- 
 band, too ! And Govind was no better. 
 
 ' It is so soon,' pleaded the boy, too much taken aback 
 for instant revolt ; besides, the situation had never come 
 into any of the novels he had read, so he really felt unable 
 to cope with it. 
 
 His remark only increased the pitch of his mother's
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 247 
 
 voice. Soon, was it? Had he not had two months of 
 billing and cooing, to gain which she and granny had 
 spun their fingers to the bone? Soon! Whose fault was 
 it if time had been wasted over alphabets and pothooks ? 
 Her shrill tones brought granny from her labours below, 
 and before these two eminently respectable matrons the 
 guilty pair could only hold each other's hands like the 
 babes in the wood, feeling lost and miserable. 
 
 That afternoon he went over to the public library, for 
 the first time since his marriage, and spent hours hunting 
 up precedents on the subject, only to return discomfited 
 and hopeless. Nihali would revolt, of course, if he bade 
 her follow his lead; but how could he bear to have the 
 finger of scorn pointed at her by those unacquainted with 
 the theory of perfect marriage and twin souls? That 
 night, when the rest of the little household retired from 
 the roof, leaving the luxury of fresh air to the younger 
 people, he and Nihali sat down under the stars on the 
 still flower-strewn bed, and cried like the children they were. 
 
 So with awful swiftness the dawn came when Govind 
 had to put on the pale-pink turban proclaiming him a 
 first-class middle student, and set off to school with his 
 books under his arm books, on the whole, less disturbing 
 than Amor Vincit Omnia and its congeners. Nothing 
 further had been said about Nihali's approaching departure. 
 It was inevitable, of course ; meanwhile, they must make 
 the most of the time left to them. So Govind looked 
 haggard and feverish as he took his accustomed place; 
 nevertheless, being student by nature, the work leguiled 
 him. By evening he was light-hearted enough to run 
 home and race up the crumbling stairs leading to the 
 roof, full of anecdotes and news for Nihali. There was
 
 248 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 no one to receive them. The roof itself had resumed its 
 normal workaday appearance, and in the very place where 
 the little bride had sat on her lacquered bridal stool 
 squatted his mother, piecing two broken strands of her 
 skein together as if nothing had happened. And nothing 
 out of the common had happened. Whose fault was it if 
 Govind flung himself on his face and wept like a baby for 
 what was beyond his reach ? 
 
 His mother had expected so much when she planned 
 her coup d'etat. But he continued to cry which she did 
 not expect for something more complex than simple 
 passion had been aroused in the boy. Of that he might 
 have been ashamed; in this he gloried. Was it not, in 
 short, a legitimate subject for self-glorification? So he 
 wept himself sick in a subdued, docile sort of way. 
 Finally, mastery/' called one day in consternation to say 
 that, though painstaking as ever, poor Govind could not 
 remember the simplest problem ; while as for riders, he 
 just sat and looked at them. The scholarship was thus 
 in danger. She tried scolding the boy in good set terms, 
 but he met her reproaches with an invulnerable superiority 
 before which she stood aghast. What was to be done? 
 Perhaps this spiriting away of the bride in order to avoid 
 a scene had been an error, but was that any reason why 
 she should be requested to return ? To begin with, it 
 would be an appalling breach of etiquette, and then there 
 was the risk of consequences much to be deprecated 
 between such very young people. The whole household, 
 including mastery'/, puzzled over the difficulty, which 
 seemed all the more puzzling because it was so uncalled 
 for, boys having been married at fifteen and sent to school 
 again afterwards since time began without any fuss. But
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 249 
 
 then, those boys had not read Amor Vincit Omnia and 
 learned to mix sentiment with passion. 
 
 While matters were at this deadlock, Nihali's mother 
 arrived on the scene unexpectedly, and, en petit comite with 
 the women-folk, gave a new turn to affairs. The possi- 
 bility suggested was in a measure disconcerting, but, on 
 the other hand, afforded Govind's mother an opportunity 
 of retreating with dignity, since the girl must not be 
 allowed to fret as she had been fretting. 
 
 The result being that a week afterwards Govind Sahai 
 did a difficult rider in a way which made Narayan Chand 
 dream dreams of a future when folk would say, 'This 
 eminent man received primary and secondary education at 
 the hands of our most successful teacher of youth, Pundit 
 Narayan Chand.' It was a dream he frequently indulged 
 in about his pupils. 
 
 The little strip of roof was once more frequented by 
 pigeons, and the snappings and joinings of threads rele- 
 gated for the most part to the court below. Yet the boy's 
 appetite did not return, and as winter came on he developed 
 a teasing cough in that narrow chest of his. The fact was, 
 that he burnt the candle of life at both ends in more ways 
 than one. Perhaps if his soul could have been left in peace 
 he might have passed through the ordeal safely, as many a 
 boy manages to do in India. But it was not. Poor 
 Govind had no rest. He strung himself up to the highest 
 pitch in obedience to the mixed result of his birth and 
 education. Then on this quivering instrument he pro- 
 ceeded to play scales. It was Tausig's exercises on a 
 zither. He had to teach himself, teach Nihali, think of 
 the coming baby, and go through the whole gamut of 
 intellectual and physical emotion of which he had read.
 
 250 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 The first string gave way when his mother, laughing, crying, 
 and blessing him all in a breath, put a boy baby into his 
 arms on his return from school one day. He sat down 
 stupidly on the lowest step of the mud stairs, gazing at 
 what he held in a sort of bewildered amaze at finding him- 
 self thus, till his mother angrily snatched the child from 
 him, saying he should be ashamed of shedding tears on a 
 new-born baby's face. It was very like Nihali, he thought, 
 only years older with all those wrinkles. Then he thought 
 helplessly how he had decided, with Nihali's consent of 
 course, on a thousand contraventions of old customs at 
 this time. Yet there was she upstairs in the hands of the 
 wise women, and the baby ready to be doctored by its 
 grandmother. What could a boy of sixteen do against 
 such odds? So the little proselytising pamphlet he had 
 read was put away with a sigh ; and after all Nihali did 
 very well under the old regime. He found her, when the 
 wise women permitted him, in the seventh heaven over 
 the baby. Was there ever such a doll, with its little sharp 
 nose and pinched-up lips ! And would he believe it ? 
 the tiny creature was so lazy that grandmother had to 
 tickle it so on the mouth before it would take any 
 interest in the sugar and spices ! By and by, when she 
 could nurse it herself, it would be different. She lay 
 smiling at the idea, while downstairs, as they left the house, 
 the gossips were shaking their heads and saying calmly, 
 ' It is an unnecessary baby, but a forerunner. Others will 
 come. There is plenty of time.' 
 
 Even when Nihali could not nurse the child, and they 
 had recourse to a Maw's feeder, which Govind, with many 
 blushes, bought at the same shop which supplied him with 
 slate pencils, those two young things feared nothing. He
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 251 
 
 used to bring his books to the roof where she lay with 
 the little quiet mouse of a thing tucked away in her veil. 
 Then, while the sun set- red over the dusty city, he worked 
 away at all the 'ologies' worked somewhat feverishly, 
 since more depended now on his success. Sometimes 
 Nihali's smile gurgled over in laughter, and Govind, look- 
 ing up, would find baby's fingers being clasped round 
 his pen. 
 
 'Look you,' she would whisper, as if in presence of 
 some great potentate, ' I asked my lord if he wished to be 
 a writer too, and see how fast he holds !' 
 
 There was one thing, however, to which the baby did 
 not hold fast, and that was life. But not till the very day 
 before the eventful examination, which meant so much to 
 Govind, did those two children read fear in each other's 
 faces about that other child. 
 
 ' O Govind ! what shall we do ? what shall we do ?' 
 wailed Nihali, when the grandmother, seeing them wild 
 with anxiety, told them the truth, while the great-grand- 
 mother stood by wagging her head and mumbling of others 
 by and by. What was that to them now? How he got 
 through the next day he never knew. He took the papers 
 and went with them to his desk; nay, more, he did his 
 level best with them, nerving himself to the effort chiefly 
 by thoughts of master-jTs disappointment if he failed. 
 But his personal interest in the matter seemed gone ; that 
 was centred on a roof in the dusty city where one child sat 
 crying over another. What were plus or minus to him save 
 a world with or without an unnecessary infant ? 
 
 All that night was passed beside Nihali, waiting for his 
 mother's voice to say the end had come ; but the morning 
 found the little sleeper still in the young mother's arms.
 
 252 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 Perhaps there was still hope. He hastily swallowed some 
 breakfast, and, delayed by this hint of respite, found him- 
 self five minutes late in the examination-room. The first 
 papers had already been given out, and to avoid possibility 
 of fraud none save those present at the issue were allowed 
 to compete. So Govind had to sit idle for a while, know- 
 ing he had lost a definite number of chances. Nor was 
 this the worst; the pause gave him time for thought. 
 Hitherto, once within the familiar walls, old habits of 
 attention and forgetfulness had possessed him. Now, with 
 nothing to do, he remembered and yet forgot. So when 
 the order to go up for the second paper came he rose with 
 his brain in a whirl, a wild desire to cry, ' Let me alone, 
 my baby is dying ! ' seeming to blot out everything else in 
 the world. Perhaps had he done so he might have had a 
 chance in the examiners' human pity ; as it was, he pulled 
 himself together, and failed hopelessly. 
 
 In the pause before the viva voce he sat looking straight 
 before him, dully conscious that he had done badly. 
 
 'Govind has never been the same since he married,' 
 whispered one boy, and the other giggled. 
 
 ' Silence ! ' cried Narayan Chand fussily. ' Govind 
 Sahai, your name is first for viv&. Come up, Govind 
 Sahai, Kyasth.' Then, as the dull yet anxious face passed 
 him, he whispered : ' Now for value of light literature. You 
 are best at colloquial, my pupil, so courage, and remember 
 "Amor Vincit Omnia" and such like things.' 
 
 ' Amor Vincit Omnia ! ' The boy's last chance fled 
 before those words. When the ordeal was over, he turned 
 back to his place mechanically. As he passed the master-/'/ 
 once more, he read his fate in the disappointed face raised 
 to his, then in the confident smile of the boy succeeding
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 253 
 
 him, finally in the surprised nudging of the whole class. 
 Something seemed to snap in his brain ; he paused, and, 
 facing the examiners, raised his hand. The rush of thought 
 was too much for him at first; then he broke silence in a 
 gentle, deprecating voice 
 
 ' If you will be kind enough to excuse me, sirs, I will 
 beg leave to retire. The exigencies of the case forbid 
 explanation, but this much is admitted that "Amor vincit 
 omnia." ' 
 
 ' That boy speaks better English than I thought for,' 
 said one examiner to the other, when the leave had 
 been granted. 'Give him five marks more; he's failed, 
 of course, but it 's as well to be just.' 
 
 When Govind reached home Nihali's arms were empty. 
 There is no need to say more. It was an unnecessary 
 infant to all save those two. 
 
 'You have failed, failed badly, my poor pupil, owing, 
 doubtless, to domestic bereavement,' said the master//, 
 when he called a week or two later full of vexed sympathy. 
 ' Such circumstances point to special privilege of entering 
 again next year, for which we will apply. And then, Govind, 
 there must be no killing of two birds with one stone. There 
 must be no complicated states of mind, confusing idiom.' 
 
 But Govind Sahai, Kyasth, did not avail himself of the 
 permission duly given, as the pundit;// put it, ' in con- 
 sideration of the strictly non-regulation death of his infant 
 at a premature age.' 
 
 The old grandfather, whose small life-pension had been 
 the prop of the household, died of autumnal fever, and 
 during the ensuing winter the result of his failure to win 
 the scholarship came home to Govind with depressing 
 force, since even from that poor ten rupees a month some-
 
 254 AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 
 
 thing might have been spared to stand between those three 
 fond women and the grindstone, that last resort of poverty. 
 Then Nihali's mother, coming over unexpectedly and find- 
 ing her daughter at the mill, carried her off in a huff. This 
 time Govind said nothing ; the spirit had gone out of him, 
 and for the girl's own sake he gave in to custom. He 
 worked very hard, but as the winter advanced his shoulders 
 seemed to grow narrower and narrower, and the teasing 
 cough became louder. Good food, care, and rest might 
 have done something perhaps ; only perhaps, for there is 
 not much to be done when the candle of life is alight at 
 both ends, except to put it out. That is what happened 
 one April morning when the bougainvillea round the arched 
 verandah of the library looked like a crimson drapery. He 
 used to go there every morning before school-hours, for the 
 memory of his failure in vivd voce rankled keenly, and he 
 was possessed by a curious determination to prove Master 
 Narayan Chand wrong in attributing it to Govind's un- 
 wise selection of books. So, secure at those hours from 
 interruption, he used to sit and study the idiom of light 
 literature. 
 
 'Thou art not fit to go,' said his mother tearfully one 
 morning after the boy had been kept awake all night by 
 cough and fever. *** 
 
 ' Reading will not hurt me, ammajanj he replied, 'and 
 the examination is next month.' 
 
 They found him two hours afterwards seated at the desk 
 before the ledger, his head resting on a novel he had just 
 been entering in the register. A horrible stain of blood 
 from the blood-vessel he had ruptured blotted the page, but 
 through it you could still see, in his bold handwriting 
 Amor Vinrit Omnia. Govind Sahai, Kyasth.
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 A TALL lanky boy of about seventeen sat half-way down 
 the great flight of steps at the eastern entrance of the 
 Jumma Mosque at Delhi, looking anxiously at a cage full of 
 avitovats, twinkl'ng little brown birds with a suspicion of 
 red amid their brown; flitting, slender, silent little birds, 
 never still for a second. He looked at them half satisfied, 
 half doubtful, and as he looked he turned a four-anna bit 
 over and over in his brown ringers. For though he was 
 dressed as a European his complexion was as dark as that 
 of most high-caste natives, and darker by a good bit than 
 that of a girl some one or two years his junior, who sat 
 fondling a pigeon on a higher step, and looking askance, 
 also, at the avitovats. 
 
 ' The Huzoor can have them for five annas if he chooses,' 
 said the evil-looking birdcatcher who was squatting among 
 his wares. Though he used the honorific title, his manner 
 was absolutely devoid of courtesy, and he turned without 
 the least change in it to address a friend in the parrot line, 
 who sat with his cages on the step above. For this par- 
 ticular flight of steps is set apart to the selling of birds, 
 especially after prayer-time on Fridays, when the pigeon- 
 racers and quail-fighters buy and bet in the wide portico of 
 rosy stone and pale marble. The avitovats having no 
 value to the sportsman commanded but a slack sale, so 
 
 265
 
 256 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 the boy had plenty of time in which to make up his mind ; 
 to judge by appearances a difficult task, for his face was 
 undeniably weak, though handsome, kindly, and soft. He 
 wore a white drill suit, clean, but sadly frayed; and his 
 grey wideawake was many sizes too large for his small 
 head. Perhaps it was the knowledge of this, combined 
 with a vague suspicion that the hat knew quite as much 
 about bird-fancying as the head within it, which made him, 
 in his perplexity, take it off, place it on his slack knees, and 
 drop the four-anna piece into it, as if it had better decide 
 the question. Sitting so, with bare head, he looked hand- 
 somer than ever, for its shape was that of a young Adonis. 
 It was, in fact, the only thing about him, or his life, which 
 corresponded with his name, Agamemnon Menelaus. The 
 surname, Gibbs, used after those eight resounding syllables 
 to come as a shock to the various chaplains who at various 
 times had undertaken to look after young Gibbs's spiritual 
 welfare. Some of them, the more experienced ones, acqui- 
 esced in that and many another anomaly after their first 
 glance at his soft, gentle face, for it was typical of that 
 class of Eurasian which makes the soul of a chaplain sink 
 within him. Others reached the same conclusion after a 
 reference to the mother, Mrs. Gibbs. She was a very dark, 
 pious woman, tearfully uncertain of all things save that she, 
 being a widow, must be supported by charity; by the 
 offertory for preference. She, however, made the problem 
 of his name less intrusive by calling him Aggie, as if he had 
 been a girl. 
 
 'They are young birds, as the Huzoor could see for 
 himself if he had eyes,' went on the birdcatcher, with a 
 yawn. ' Next moulting they will be as red as a rutti seed. 
 But it is five annas, not four.'
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 257 
 
 Aggie had no lack of eyes outwardly ; they were large 
 and soft as velvet, and, as they looked down at the avitovats, 
 showed a thick fringe of curling lashes. But there was an 
 almost pathetic guilelessness in them, and one brown hand 
 hesitated about his breast-pocket. He had another anna 
 there, part of a monthly stipend of one rupee for attending 
 the choir, which he had intended to spend on sweets pre- 
 served pumpkins for choice ; but the avitovats, with their 
 promise of scarlet plumage, cozened his indolent, colour- 
 loving eyes almost as much as the thought of the sweets 
 did his palate. Should he, should he not? The mere 
 sight of the birds was a strong point in their favour, and 
 his hand had sought the inside of his pocket when a 
 whisper met his ear. 
 
 ' Hens ! ' 
 
 It was unmistakable, and he turned to look at the girl 
 behind him. She was sitting on her heels, crunched up chin 
 and knees, holding her pigeon close to her face as if to hide 
 it. And as he turned she sidled further away along the step 
 with the curious gliding shuffle peculiar to native girls and 
 pigeons. c Kaboo-tri, ka-boo-tri, ka-boo-tri! gurgled the 
 pigeon, as if pleased at the motion. It was a blue-rock, show- 
 ing a purple and green iridescence on the breast, and the girl's 
 dress matched its colourings exactly ; for her ragged cotton 
 skirt had washed and worn to a dark neutral tint, and the 
 shot-silk bodice, tattered and torn, with tarnished gold 
 embroidery on its front, took gleams of a past glory from 
 the sunlight. Her veil had faded in its folds to a sort of 
 cinnamon brown, touched with blue, and both it and the 
 bodice were many sizes too large for her slight, childish 
 figure. 
 
 ' If the Huzoor is not to buy let him give place to those 
 
 R
 
 258 THE WINGS OF A UOVE 
 
 who will,' suggested the birdcatcher cavalierly. He had 
 been too far to catch the whisper, and thought to clinch 
 the bargain by a threat. 
 
 Agamemnon Menelaus looked at him nervously. 'Are 
 you sure they are young birds ? ' he suggested timidly. 
 'They might, they might be hens, you know.' There 
 was a half perceptible quiver of his handsome head as if to 
 watch the girl. The birdcatcher broke out into violent 
 asseverations, and Aggie's hand out of sheer trepidation, 
 went into his pocket again. 
 
 ' Hens ! ' 
 
 This time there was a ring almost of command in the 
 tone, and Agamemnon obeyed it instinctively by rising to 
 go. ' Ka-boo-tri, ka-boo-trij came the gurgle of the pigeon ; 
 or was it partly a chuckle from the girl as she sidled still 
 further along the step ? 
 
 ' So ! that is good riddance,' said the birdcatcher to the 
 parrotseller angrily. 'God made the rainbow, but the 
 devil made the dye-pot ! Yet I thought I had sold them 
 *at last. He looked not so sharp as that.' 
 
 The parrot-seller yawned. "Twas Kabootri did it,' 
 he remarked, with bland indifference. ' She said 
 "hens."' 
 
 The birdcatcher stared at him incredulously, then 
 passed the look on to the girl, who still sat with the 
 crooning pigeon held close to her face. 
 
 ' Kabootri ? ' he echoed, with an uneasy laugh. ' Nay, 
 neighbour, 'twas she who told me but an hour ago that if 
 I sold not something this Friday she would kill herself. 
 'Tis a trick of words she hath learned of her trade,' he 
 went on, with a curious mixture of anger and approbation. 
 ' But it means something to a man who hath cursed luck
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 259 
 
 and a daughter who has a rare knack of getting her own 
 way.' 
 
 The parrot-seller gave a pull at a bulbul-seller's pipe as 
 if it were his own. ' Thou wilt be disgraced if thou give it 
 her much longer, friend,' he said calmly. ' 'Tis time she were 
 limed and netted. And with no mother either to whack her!' 
 
 The uneasy laugh came again. ' If the Nawab's pigeon 
 wins we may see to a son-in-law ; but she is a child still, 
 neighbour, and a good daughter too, helping her father 
 more than he helps her.' There was a touch of real pride 
 in his tone. 
 
 ' She said " hens," ' retorted the parrot-seller. ' Ask her 
 if she did not.' 
 
 ' Kabootri ! Kabootri ! ' 
 
 The call was a trifle tremulous, but the girl rose with 
 alacrity, throwing the pigeon into the air with the deft 
 hand of a practised racer as she did so. The bird was 
 practised also, and without a flutter flew off into the blue 
 like an arrow from a bow ; then, as if confused by finding 
 itself without a rival, wheeled circling round the rose-red 
 pile till it settled on one of the marble cupolas. 
 
 'What is't, father?' she asked, standing on the upper 
 steps and looking down on the two men. She was wonder- 
 fully fair, with a little pointed chin, and a wide, firm mouth 
 curiously at variance with it, as were the big, broad, black 
 eyebrows with the liquid softness of her eyes. 
 
 'Why didst say "hens," Kabootri?' replied her father, 
 assuming the fact as the best way of discovering the truth, 
 since her anger at unjust suspicion was always prompt. 
 
 ' Why ?' she echoed absently. 'Why?' Then suddenly 
 she smiled. c I don't know, father ; but I did ! ' 
 
 The birdcatcher broke out into useless oaths. His
 
 260 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 daughter had the dove's name, but was no better than a 
 peacock, a peacock in a thief's house ; she had lost him 
 five annas for nothing. 
 
 Kabootri's eyebrows looked ominous. ' Five annas ! 
 Fret not for five annas ! ' she echoed scornfully, turning 
 on her heels towards the gateway; and flinging out her 
 arms she began the pigeon's note the pigeon's name and 
 her own ' Ka-boo-tri^ ka-boo-tri, ka-boo-tril' It was as if 
 a bird were calling to its mate, and the answer came 
 quickly in the soft whir of many wings as the blue-rocks, 
 which live among the rose-red battlements and marble 
 cupolas, wheeled down in lessening circles. 
 
 ' Lo ! there is Kabootri calling the pigeons,' remarked 
 an old gentleman, who was crossing citywards from the 
 Fort ; a stoutish gentleman, clothed immaculately in filmy 
 white muslin with a pale pink inner turban folded across 
 his forehead and showing triangularly beneath the white 
 outer one. He was one of the richest bankers in Delhi ; 
 by religion a Jain, the sect to whom the destruction of life 
 is the one unpardonable sin, and he gave a nervous glance 
 at the distant figure on the steps. 
 
 ' Nay ! partner, she was in our street last week,' put in 
 his companion, who was dressed in similar fashion ; ' and 
 Kabootri is not as the boys, who are ever at one, with 
 sparrows, for a pice or two. She hath business in her, and 
 a right feeling. She takes once and hath done with it till 
 the value is paid. The gift of the old bodice and shawl 
 which my house gave her, kept us free for six months. 
 Still, if thou art afraid, we can go round a bit.' 
 
 Kabootri from her coign of vantage saw them sneaking 
 off the main road, and smiled at their caution contemp- 
 tuously ; but what they had said was true, she had business
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 261 
 
 in her, and right feeling. It was not their turn to pay ; so, 
 cuddling a captured pigeon to her breast, she set off in 
 an opposite direction, threading the bazaars and alleys 
 unerringly, and every now and again crooning her own 
 name softly to the bird, which, without a struggle, watched 
 her with its onyx eyes, and called to her again. 
 
 ' There is Kabootri with a pigeon,' remarked the drug- 
 seller at the corner to his clients, the leisurely folk with 
 ailments who sit and suggest sherbets to each other, and 
 go away finally to consult a soothsayer for a suitable day 
 on which to take their little screw or phial of medicine. 
 ' She will be going to Sri Parasnath's. It is a while since 
 she was there, and Kabootri is just, for a bird-slayer.' 
 
 Apparently he was right as to her purpose; for at the 
 turn leading to Sri Parasnath's place of business she sat 
 down on a step, and after a preliminary caress fastened a 
 string deftly to one of the pigeon's feet. Then she caressed 
 it again, stroking its head and crooning to it. Finally, with 
 a bound she started to her feet, flung it from her to flutter 
 forlornly in the air, her level black eyebrows bent them- 
 selves downwards into a portentous frown, and her young 
 voice rang out shrilly, almost savagely, ' YaAee, choori-yah- 
 mdr. Aihee, choori-yah-mar T ('Hillo! the bird-slayer! 
 Hullo, the bird-slayer!') 
 
 ' Look out, brother,' said a fat old merchant in spectacles, 
 who was poring over a ledger in the wooden balcony of an 
 old house. { Look out and see who 'tis. If 'tis Kabootri, 
 thou canst take eight annas from the box. She will not 
 loose the bird for less; but if 'tis a boy with sparrows, 
 wait and bargain.' 
 
 It was Kabootri, no doubt. Who else but she came 
 like a young tiger-cat down the lane, startling the shadowy
 
 262 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 silence with strange savage threats ? Who but she came 
 like a young Bacchante, dancing with fury, showing her 
 small white teeth, and, apparently, dragging her poor victim 
 by one leg, or whirling it cruelly round her on a string, so 
 that its fluttering wings seemed like her fluttering veil? 
 ' Give ! At, followers of Rishaba, give, or I kill ! At, 
 Jain people, give, or I take life ! ' 
 
 Sri Parasnath put his turbanless bald head with its odd 
 little tuft of a pigtail over the balcony, and concealing his 
 certainty under a very creditable show of dismay, called 
 down curses solemnly on her head. He would send for 
 the police ; he would have her locked up and fined. She 
 might take the bird and kill it before his very eyes if she 
 chose, but he would not pay a pice for its freedom. To 
 all of which Kabootri replied with a fresh method of doing 
 the victim to death. She played her part with infinite 
 spirit, but her antagonist was in a hurry to get some orders 
 for Manchester goods off in time for the English mail, so 
 his performance was but half-hearted, and ere she had well 
 begun her list of horrors, the eight-anna bit came clinking 
 down on the brick pavement, and she, as in duty bound, 
 had to squat beside it and loosen the string from the 
 pigeon's leg. As usual she had to drive it from settling on 
 her head or shoulders by wild antics, until it fluttered to a 
 neighbouring roof, where it sidled along the copings with 
 bright eyes watching her and with soft cooings of ' ka-boo-tri, 
 ka-boo-triT 
 
 Once beyond Jain eyes, she always gave back the call so 
 as to assure herself that no harm had been done. This 
 time by some mischance there happened to be a broken 
 feather in the wing, and her lips set themselves over the 
 task of pulling it out, that being a necessity to even flight
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 263 
 
 After which, came renewed caresses with a passion in them 
 beyond the occasion ; for indeed the passion in Kabootri 
 was altogether beyond the necessities of her life as yet. 
 True, it was not always such plain sailing as it had been 
 with Sri Parasnath. Newcomers there were, even old 
 customers striving in modern fashion to shake themselves 
 free from such deliberate blackmailing, who needed to be 
 reminded of her methods methods ending in passionate 
 tears over her own cruelty in the first quiet spot she could 
 reach. But of late years she had grown cunning in the 
 avoidance of irretrievable injury. A dexterous slipping of 
 the cord would leave her captive free, and she herself at 
 liberty to go round to some poultry-seller and borrow a 
 poor fowl under sentence of death, with which she would 
 return to unflinching execution. These things had to be, 
 and her young face would be like a Medea's as she did the 
 deed. But even this was of the past, since folk had begun 
 to recognise the uselessness of driving the girl to extremi- 
 ties. Thus her threat, c I will kill, I will kill ! ' brought at 
 most but a broken feather in a dove's wing, and a passionate 
 cuddling of the victim to her breast. 
 
 This one was interrupted brusquely by a question 
 
 ' Why did you say hens ? ' 
 
 It was Aggie. He happened to live close by in a tumble- 
 down tenement with two square yards of verandah, which 
 were the mainstay of Mrs. Gibbs's position. They, and the 
 necessity for blacking Agamemnon Menelaus's boots when 
 he went to the choir, separated her effectually and irre- 
 vocably from her native neighbours. He did nov sing 
 now, his voice had begun to crack, but he looked well 
 in a surplice, and the chaplain knew he would have to 
 pay the monthly stipend in any case. So> this being
 
 264 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 Friday, Aggie was on his way to evensong, polished boots 
 and all; they were really the strongest barrier between 
 him and the tall girl with her pretty bare feet who stood 
 up to face him, with a soft, perplexed look in the eyes 
 which were so like his in all but expression ; and even that 
 merged into his in its softness and perplexity. 
 
 ' Because, because they were hens,' she said with an 
 odd little tremble in her voice. 
 
 So the two young things stood looking at each other, 
 while the pigeon gurgled and cooed : ' Ka-boo-tri, kq,-boo-tri, 
 ka-boo-tri ! ' 
 
 ii 
 
 'So, seest thou, Kabootri, thou" wilt turn Christian, and 
 then I will marry thee.' Aggie's outlook on the future 
 went so far, and left the rest to Providence ; the girl's went 
 further. 
 
 ' Trra!' she commented. ' That is fool's talk. I am a 
 bird-slayer : how could we live without the pigeons and the 
 mosque ? Thou hast no money.' 
 
 They were sitting on the flight of steps once more, with 
 a cage full of scarlet avitovats between them, so that the 
 passers-by could not see the hands that were locked in each 
 other behind the cage. 
 
 'Then I will marry thee, and become a heathen/ 
 amended Agamemnon, giving a squeeze to what he held. 
 She smiled, and the soft curves of her chin seemed to 
 melt into those of her long throat, as she hung her head 
 and looked at him as if he were the most beautiful thing in 
 her world. 'That is wiser,' she said, ' and if thou dost not 
 marry me I will kill myself. So that is settled.' He gave 
 another squeeze to her hand, and she smiled again. Then
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 265 
 
 they sat gazing at each other across the avitovats, hand in 
 hand like a couple of children ; for there was guilelessness 
 in his eyes and innocence in hers. 
 
 'Lo !' she said suddenly. ' I know not now why I said 
 " hens." ' She paused, failing to find her own meaning, 
 and so came back to more practical matters. 'Thou hadst 
 best be buying the birds, Aga-meean l [for so, to suit her 
 estimate of him, she had chosen to amend his name], or 
 folk will wonder. And if thou wilt leave them in the old 
 place in the Queen's Gardens I will fetch them away, and 
 thou canst buy them of me again next Friday.' 
 
 There was no cunning in her manner, only a solid grasp 
 on the exigencies of the position Had he not a mother 
 living in a house with a verandah, and was not her father 
 a bird-seller? Was he not at that moment betting on the 
 Nawab's coming pigeon-race on the platform above them ? 
 Despite these exigencies, however, the past three weeks 
 had been pleasant ; if Aggie was still rather hazy as to the 
 difference between young cocks and old hens, it was from 
 no lack of experience in the buying of avitovats. Kabootri 
 used to give him the money wherewith to buy them, and 
 leave it again in the hiding-place where she found the birds ; 
 so it was not an expensive amusement to either of them. 
 And if Agamemnon Menelaus had not grasped the deter- 
 mination which underlay the girl's threats of taking life, it 
 was from no lack of hearing them, ay, and of shivering at 
 them. The savage, reckless young figure, startling the sun- 
 shine and shadow of the narrow lanes with its shrill cry, 
 ' I will kill, I will kill, yea, I will take life ! ' had filled him 
 with a sort of proud bewilderment, a sacred admiration. 
 And other things had brought the same dizzy content with 
 1 Aga, noble ; Meean, prince.
 
 266 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 them. That same figure, sidling along the rose-red copings 
 like any pigeon, to gain the marble cupolas where the 
 young birds were to be found, those young birds which 
 must be taught betimes to play her game of Life and 
 Death, as all her world must be taught to play it, was 
 fascinating. It was disturbing when it sat close to him 
 in the Queen's Gardens, eating rose comfits bought cut of 
 the blood-money, and cooing to him like any dove, while 
 the pigeons in the trees above it called ' Ka-boo-tri, ka-boo- 
 tri ! ' as if they were jealous. 
 
 The outcome of it all, however, was, as yet, no more than 
 the discarding of boots in favour of native shoes, and the sup- 
 planting of the grey wideawake by a white and gold saucer- 
 cap which only cost four annas, and lay on the dark waves 
 of the lad's small head as if it had been made for it. 
 Kabootri clasped her hands tight in sheer admiration as 
 she watched him go down the steps with the cage of scarlet 
 avitovats ; but Mrs. Gibbs, while admitting the superlative 
 beauty of the combination, burst into floods of lamentation 
 at the sight, for it was a symptom she had seen often in 
 lads of Aggie's age. His elder brother had begun that 
 way ; that elder brother who was now a thorn in the side 
 of every chaplain from Peshawur to Calcutta by reason of 
 his disconcerting desire to live as a heathen and be saved 
 as a Christian. 
 
 So, when Aggie, with a spark of unusual spirit, had re- 
 fused to put on the boots which she had made the servant 
 (for, of course, there had to be a servant in a house with a 
 verandah) black with the greatest care; in other words, 
 when he had refused to go to church, since native shoes 
 and a Delhi cap are manifestly incompatible with a surplice, 
 she went over to a bosom friend and wept again. But
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 267 
 
 Mrs. Rosario was of a different type altogether. She seldom 
 wept, taking life with a pure philosophy, and making her 
 living out of her handsome daughters by marrying them off 
 to the first comer on the chance of his doing well. 
 
 'There is no-need-to cry,' she said comfortably in the 
 curious half staccato, half legato intonation of her race. 
 'Your boy is-no-worse than all boys. If they do not get-on- 
 a place or get married they fall-into mischief. God made 
 them-so, and we must bow to His will, as we are Christians 
 and not heathen. And girls are-like-that too. If they-do- 
 not-get-married they will give trouble. So, if you ask my 
 advice, I say that if-you-cannot-get-your poor boy on a 
 place you had better get-him-a-wife, or the bad black 
 woman in the bazaar will-lead-him-to bad ways ; for he is a 
 handsome boy, almost as handsome as my Lily. He is 
 too young, perhaps, and she-is-too-young-too, but if you 
 like he can beau my Lily. You can ask some-one-for 
 clothes, and then he can beau Lily to the choir. And give 
 a little hop in your place, Mrs. Gibbs. When my girls 
 try me I give hops. It makes them all-right, and your 
 boy-will-be-all-right too. You live too quiet, Mrs. Gibbs, 
 for young folk ; they will have some pleasure. So get your 
 son nice new clothes, and I-will-give-a-hop at my place, 
 and send my cook to help yours.' 
 
 This solid sense caused Mrs. Gibbs to lie in wait for the 
 chaplain in his verandah, armed with a coarse cotton 
 handkerchief soaked in patchouli, and an assertion that 
 Aggie's absence from the choir was due to unsuitable 
 clothes. And both tears and scent being unbearable, she 
 went back with quite a large bundle of garments which 
 had belonged to a merry English boy who had come out 
 to join his parents, only to die of enteric fever. 'Give
 
 268 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 them away in charity, my dear,' the father had said in a 
 hard voice, ' the boy would have liked them best himself.' 
 So the mother, with hopeless tears over the scarce-worn 
 things, had sent them over to the chaplain for his poor. 
 
 Thus it happened that before Kabootri had recovered 
 from her intense delight at the cap, Mrs. Gibbs was laying 
 out a beautiful suit, cut to the latest fashion, to await 
 Aggie's return from one of those absences which had 
 become so alarmingly frequent. There was a brand-new 
 red tie, also a pair of lavender gloves, striped socks, and 
 patent-leather pumps. To crown all, there was a note on 
 highly-scented paper with an L on it in lilies of the valley, 
 in which Mrs. Rosario and her daughters requested the 
 pleasure of Mr. Agamemnon Menelaus Gibbs's company at 
 a hop that evening. What more could a young man like 
 Aggie want for his regeneration ? Nothing apparently : it 
 was impossible, for instance, to think of sitting on the steps 
 with Kabootri in a suit made by an English tailor, a tall 
 hat, and a pair of lavender kid gloves. Yet the fine 
 feathers had to be worn when, in obedience to the R.S.V.P. 
 in the corner of the scented note, he had to take over a 
 reply in which Mr. Agamemnon Menelaus Gibbs accepted 
 with pleasure, etc., etc. 
 
 ' O mamma ! ' said Miss Lily, who received the note in 
 person, with a giggle of admiration. ' I do like him ; he is 
 quite the gentleman.' The remark, being made before its 
 object had left the tiny courtyard, which the Rosarios 
 dignified by the name of compound, was quite audible, and 
 a shy smile of conscious vanity overspread the lad's hand- 
 some face. 
 
 About the same time, that is to say when the sinking 
 sun, still gloriously bright, had hidden itself behind the
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 269 
 
 vast pile of the mosque, so that it stood out in pale purple 
 shadow against a background of sheer sunlight, Kabootri 
 was curled up on a cornice with her back to one of the carven 
 pilasters of a cupola, dreaming idly of Aga-Meean in his 
 white and gold cap. He had not been to the steps that 
 day, so from her airy perch she was keeping a watch for 
 him ; and as she watched, her clasp on the pigeon she was 
 caressing tightened unconsciously, till with a croon and a 
 flutter it struggled for freedom. The sound brought other 
 wings to wheel round the girl expectantly, for it was near 
 the time for the birds' evening meal. Sharafat-Nissa, the 
 old canoness who lived on the roof below the marble 
 cupolas, had charge of the store of grain set apart for the 
 purpose by the guardians of the mosque ; but as a rule 
 Kabootri fed the pigeons. She did many such an odd job 
 for the queer little cripple, half pensioner, half saint, who 
 kept a Koran class for poor girls and combined it with a 
 sort of matrimonial agency ; for the due providing of suit- 
 able husbands to girls who have no relations to see after 
 such things is a meritorious act of piety ; a lucrative one 
 also, when, as in Sharafat-Nissa's case, you belong to a good 
 family, and have a large connection in houses where a 
 good-looking maiden is always in request as an extra wife. 
 So, as she taught the Holy Book, her keen little eyes were 
 always on the alert for a possible bride. They had been 
 on Kabootri for a long time ; hitherto, however, that idle, 
 disreputable father downstairs had managed to evade the 
 old canoness. But now that the great pigeon-race of the 
 year was being decided on the grassy plain between the 
 mosque and the Fort, his last excuse would be gone ; for 
 he had all but promised that, if he lost, Sharafat-Nissa 
 should arrange the sale of the girl into some rich house,
 
 270 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 while if he won, he had promised himself to give Kabootri, 
 who in his way he really liked, a strapping young husband 
 fit to please any girl ; one who, being of her own caste, 
 would allow her the freedom which she loved even as the 
 birds loved it. 
 
 She, however, knew nothing of this compact. So when 
 the great shout telling of victory went up from the packed 
 multitude on the plain, she only wondered with a smile if 
 her father would be swaggering about with money to jingle 
 in his pocket, or if she would have to cry, ' I will kill, I 
 will kill,' a little oftener than usual. Sharafat-Nissa heard 
 the shout also, and, as she rocked backwards and forwards 
 over her evening chant of the Holy Book, gave a 
 covetous upward glance at the slender figure she could 
 just see among the wings of the doves. Downstairs 
 among the packed multitudes, the shout which told him of 
 defeat made the birdcatcher also, reprobate as he was, 
 look up swiftly to the great gateway which was fast deepen- 
 ing to purple as the sun behind it dipped closer to the 
 horizon ; for one could always tell where Kabootri was by 
 the wheeling wings. 
 
 ' Have a care ! ' he said fiercely to the discreetly veiled 
 figure that evening as it sat behind the narrow slit of a 
 door blocking the narrow stair, which Kabootri trod so 
 often on her way to and from the roof. ' Have a care, 
 sister 1 She is not easily limed or netted.' A sort of 
 giggle came from the veil. c Yea, brother ! Girls are all 
 so, but if the cage is gilt ' 
 
 It was just a week after this, and the sunlight behind the 
 shadow of the mosque was revelling in sheeny iridescence 
 of her tattered silk bodice, that Kabootri's figure showed 
 clear and defiant against the sky, as she stood on the
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 271 
 
 uppermost, outermost coping of the gateway. There was 
 a sheer fall beneath her to the platform below. She had 
 just escaped from the room where she had been caged like 
 any bird for three whole days, and the canoness on the roof 
 below was looking up at her prisoner helplessly. 
 
 ' Listen, my pigeon, my beloved ! ' she wheedled breath- 
 lessly. ' Come down, and let us talk it over together.' 
 
 ' Open the door, I say/ came the shrill young voice. 
 'Open, or I kill myself ! Open, or I kill ! ' 
 
 ' Heart's blood ! Listen ! He shall be a young man, a 
 handsome man.' 
 
 Handsome, young ! Was not Aga-Meean young ? Was 
 he not handsome ? The thought made her voice shriller, 
 clearer. ' Open the door, or I kill ! Open, or I take life ! ' 
 The words were the words of the young tiger-cat that had 
 been wont to startle the sunshine and the shadow, making 
 Sri Parasnath seek his cash-box incontinently; but there 
 was a new note of appeal in their determination ; for if it 
 was but three days since she had been caged, it was six 
 since she had seen Aga-Meean. What had become of him ? 
 Had he sought and missed her ? Had he not ? 
 
 'Listen, my bird,' came the wheedling voice; 'come 
 down and listen. Kabootri ! I swear that if thou likest not 
 this one I will let thee go and seek another. I swear it, 
 child.' 
 
 The sidling feet edged nearer along the coping, for this 
 respite would at least give time. ' Swear it on the Holy 
 Book. So in thy right hand and in thy left. Let me 
 see it.' She stretched her own hands out over the depths, 
 and at the sight the expectant pigeons came wheeling 
 round her. 
 
 ' I swear by God and His prophet,' began the old
 
 272 THE WINGS OF A DOVE 
 
 canoness, gabbling as fast as she could over the oath ; but 
 above her breathless mumble came a little shriek, a little 
 giggle, and a girl's voice from below. ' Ah, Mr. Gibbs ! 
 You are so naughty, so very naughty ! ' 
 
 Kabootri could not understand the words, but the giggle 
 belongs to all tongues, and it jarred upon her passion, her 
 despair. She looked down, and saw a well-known figure, 
 changed utterly by a familiar, yet unfamiliar, dress. She 
 saw two girls about her own age, with tiny waists, huge 
 sleeves, and hats. It was Aga-Meean, escorting the two 
 Miss Rosarios, who had expressed a desire to see the 
 mosque. And she saw something else ; she saw the look 
 which the prettiest of the two girls gave to Aga-Meean; 
 she saw the look he gave in return. Her sidling feet 
 paused ; she swayed giddily. 
 
 ' Kabootri ! Kabootri ! ' called the woman on the roof 
 eagerly, anxiously, ' I have sworn it. Come down, my 
 pigeon, come down, my dove ! It makes me dizzy.' 
 
 So that was Aga-Meean ! The mistress said sooth ; 
 the wings made one dizzy, the wings, the wings of a 
 dove ! 
 
 She had them I For the wind caught the wide folds of 
 her veil, and claimed a place in the wide, fluttering sheen 
 of her bodice, as she fell, and fell, and fell, down from the 
 marble cupolas, past the purple shadow of the great gate- 
 way, to the wide platform where the doves are bought and 
 sold. And some of the pigeons followed her, and some 
 sat sidling on the coping, calling ' Ka-boo-tri, ka-boo-tri!' 
 But those of them who knew her best fled affrighted into 
 the golden halo of sunshine behind the rose-red pile.
 
 ' MIRIAM, Miriam, what is it ? Canst thou not tell a body, 
 bound to a millstone as I ? Thy tongue goes fast enough 
 when I wish thee silent!' It was a woman's voice that 
 was beginning to lose its fulness and sweetness, in other 
 words, its womanliness, which called up from the court- 
 yard, where the hum of the quern grinding the yellow 
 Indian corn deadened all other sounds. 
 
 ' It is nought, mother ! Only Hussan and Husayn once 
 more/ It was a woman's voice also from the roof where 
 the Indian corn was drying to a richer gold in the sun- 
 light; but it was a voice which had hardly come as yet 
 to its full roundness, in other words, to its perfect womanli- 
 ness. 
 
 ' Hussan and Husayn ! What makes them be for ever 
 fighting like young cocks?' 
 
 There was an instant's pause ; then the voice from the 
 roof came piously, ' God knows ! ' 
 
 Probably He did, but Miriam herself might have been 
 less modest as to her knowledge. For the case stood thus. 
 It was a corner house between two sequestered alleys 
 which intersected each other at right angles, and there had 
 been a lingering lover, expectant of some recognition, in 
 each alley. Now, if half a handful of golden corn be 
 thrown as a guerdon over the parapet just at the angle, 
 and if the lovers, hot-blooded young sparks, spring forward 
 
 s
 
 274 THE SWIMMERS 
 
 incontinently to pick up the precious grains and meet, 
 then 
 
 ' Indeed, mother, they were very like cocks/ remarked 
 Miriam gravely, as she stepped daintily down the narrow 
 mud stairs again to resume her spinning in the courtyard. 
 Once more she spoke truth, but hardly the whole truth ; 
 since when featherless bipeds are picking up grains of corn 
 out of a gutter, they can hardly avoid a resemblance to 
 feathered ones. 
 
 So the whir of the wheel joined the hum of the quern, 
 and both formed a background to her sudden girlish laugh 
 at the recollection of what she had seen through the peep- 
 hole in the parapet. 
 
 The whole thing was a play to this Osmanzai girl, who, 
 for all her seclusion, knew perfectly well that she was the 
 beauty of the village, and that many another spark besides 
 Hussan and Husayn would be only too glad of half a 
 handful of Indian corn to pick up out of the gutter. But 
 these two being the most expert swimmers in that quaint, 
 bare colony of huts set on a loose shale slope with the 
 wild, wicked rush of the Indus at its foot, were, perhaps, 
 the most interesting. That is to say, if you excepted 
 Khasia, the big, soft shepherd who came down sometimes 
 from the grassy, fir-crowned slopes higher up the gorge; 
 the Maha-ban or Great Forest Hills, beyond which lay the 
 Black Mountain. 
 
 A strange, wild country, is this of the Indus gorge, just 
 as the great river begins to think of the level plains in 
 front of it. A strange, wild people are those who live in 
 that close-packed, flat-roofed village upon the shale slope, 
 where a footfall sends the thin leaves of mica-schist slither- 
 ing away into the rushing river. There is no stranger
 
 THE SWIMMERS 275 
 
 country, no wilder people. For this is Sitana, the place 
 of refuge for every Mohammedan fanatic who finds the 
 more civilised plains too hot even for his fiery faith; 
 Sitana, the dwelling-place of the Syyuds who, since the 
 days of their great leader Ahmad, have spent their lives in 
 killing every hell-doomed infidel they can get hold of in 
 cold blood. And as the pigs of Hindus live on the other 
 side of the rushing river, it follows that those who kill must 
 also swim, since there is no bridge far or near. That was 
 why Hussan and Husayn, and many another of their sort, 
 with carefully oiled thews and sinews of bronze, would go 
 down the shale slope on dark nights and slip softly into 
 the ice-cold stream. Then, if there was a glint of moon, 
 you could see them caught in the great upward curve of 
 the mad current inshore, the two skin bladders that were 
 slung under their armpits making it look as if six dark 
 heads, not two, were drifting down and down ; yet somehow 
 drifting nearer and nearer to the other side where the pigs 
 of Hindus were to be found. But even a glint of moon 
 kept them, as a rule, talking of future nights unless there 
 was some cause to raise their recklessness to fever-height ; 
 for even that glint was enough to make the police watchers 
 on the other, the English, side slip softly also into the 
 stream, and give chase. A strange, wild chase indeed it 
 was; down and down in the dark till the blockade was 
 run, or the venture abandoned for another night. Or 
 stranger, wilder still, two men with knives met on the crest 
 of the current and fought a strange, bloodless fight, hacking 
 at the bladders because they were larger than the head, 
 and the loss of them meant equally certain disablement. 
 For there was nothing to be done in that wild stream, if 
 they were pricked, but to cast them free and dive dive
 
 276 THE SWIMMERS 
 
 down and down past the current, to come up, please God ! 
 nearer home. 
 
 So, because of those watchers on the other side, the 
 Sitana swimmers could not start openly, nor from the 
 same place. They went singly, silently, but the next 
 morning ere the light came fully they would all be resting 
 together on the steps of the little mosque; unless, indeed 
 some of them had not returned; were, in fact, to return 
 no more. And the worshippers would be crowding round 
 one or two, perhaps, while the others looked on enviously 
 to hear how some traveller had been happened upon and 
 done to death in the dark upon the undulating tract of 
 low jungle on the other side. Then the worshippers going 
 home would say casually in their houses : ' Hussan killed 
 his man last night ; that makes him two ahead of Husayn. 
 And Ahmad, the new one, hath another, so that brings 
 him next to Husayn, who will need to work hard.' And 
 the women would gossip about it among themselves, and 
 say that, of course, Miriam, the village-beauty, would choose 
 the best swimmer when the time came for the curious 
 choice which is allowed the Pathan girl among lovers whom 
 she is supposed never to have seen. As yet, however, 
 Miriam had only laughed, and thrown handfuls of yellow 
 corn into the gutter, and said things to the aspirants' 
 female relations which were sure to be repeated, and make 
 the rivalry run fiercer than ever. She did all this partly 
 because of the big shepherd, partly because it was good 
 for the faith to stimulate the young men's courage, but 
 mostly because it amused her. 
 
 It was far, however, from having that effect on the 
 Englishman who was responsible for the reputation of the 
 district over the water. The more so because his name
 
 THE SWIMMERS 277 
 
 happened to be John Nicholson, and John Nicholson was 
 not a man to allow any increase of crime within his borders 
 without knowing the reason why, and meting out punish- 
 ment for the offence. 
 
 'What the deuce does it mean?' he said to the trem- 
 bling native official in charge of that particular portion of 
 the country which lay over against Sitana. 'There have 
 been twenty murders this quarter against ten in the last. 
 And I told you that for every man killed on our side 
 there were to be two in Sitana. What on earth are your 
 swimmers about? If they are not so good as theirs, get 
 others. Get something ! There must be some fault on 
 your part, or they wouldn't cock their tails up in this 
 way. Remedy it ; that is what you have got to do, so 
 don't ask questions as to how it is to be done. I '11 back 
 you up, never fear.' 
 
 And then he took his telescope out, as he sat on his 
 horse among the low bushes down by the rushing river, 
 and prospected before he galloped off, neck or nothing, 
 as his fashion was, to regain his camp thirty miles away, 
 and write an urgent letter to Government detailing fully 
 the measures which he intended to adopt for the repres- 
 sion of these scandalous crimes. But even a telescope 
 did not show him Miriam's face as she sat spinning in 
 the courtyard. And the rest of the long, low, flat-roofed 
 village clinging to the shaly slope seemed very much at 
 its usual; that is to say, the commonplace nest of as 
 uncommon a set of religious scoundrels as could be found 
 north or south. So he told himself that they must have 
 been strengthened lately by a new contingent of fanatics 
 from the plains, or that the approaching Mohurrum-tide 
 had raised their religious fervour to boiling-point. He
 
 278 THE SWIMMERS 
 
 allowed these reasons to himself, though he permitted 
 none to his subordinate; but neither he nor the scared 
 police inspector dreamed of that laughing girl's face over 
 the water which was the cause of Hussan and Husayn's 
 unusual activity. Still, as he gathered his reins into his 
 left hand he paused to give a more kindly look from under 
 his dark eyebrows at the inspector's knock-knees. 
 
 ' Why don't you get some of their swimmers ? ' he asked 
 curtly. ' I could.' Doubtless he could; he was a man who 
 got most things which he set himself to get. Yet even he 
 might have failed here but for that girl's face, that handful 
 of yellow Indian corn, and the fierce fight which followed 
 for both between those two, Hussan and Husayn, who, as 
 they were finally held back from each other by soothing, 
 friendly hands, felt that the end was nigh if it had not 
 already come. Brothers of the same belief fellow-workers 
 in that stream of Death first and second alternately in 
 the great race for men's lives, they knew that the time 
 had come when they must be at each other's throat and 
 settle which was to be best once and for all which was 
 to be best in Miriam's eyes. And then to their blind 
 wrath came an authoritative voice, the voice of the holiest 
 man there, the Syyud Ahmad, whom to disobey was to 
 be accursed. ' There is too much of this brawling,' came 
 the fiat. ' 'Tis a disgrace. Lo ! Hussan, Husayn, here 
 among the elders, swear before the Lord to have done 
 with it. Swear that neither will raise hand again against 
 a hand that fights for the same cause. Swear, both of 
 you.' A chorus of approval came from the bystanders 
 as those two, thus checked, stood glaring at each other. 
 There were a few grains of the yellow Indian corn still 
 in the gutter at their feet; and they looked at them as
 
 THE SWIMMERS 279 
 
 they swore never again to raise a hand against one fighting 
 the good fight. 
 
 That same day, at dusk, Hussan and Husayn sat on the 
 edge of the stream, their feet almost touching the water, 
 their skin-bladders beside them, their sharp knives hung 
 in a sheath round their necks. Their bronze muscles 
 shone even in the growing gloom ; from head to foot they 
 were lithe, strong, graceful in their very strength. They 
 sat close to each other as they had often sat before, look- 
 ing out over the tumbling rush of the wild current, to the 
 other side of the river. 
 
 ' Yea ! Then I will go forth to-night as thou sayest, 
 Hussan ; and when I return equal, we will draw lots which 
 is to take service on the other side.' 
 
 'So be it, Husayn; I will wait for thee. And see, if 
 thou couldst kill one of their swimmers, 'twere better. 
 Then will it be easier to get his place. Hit up, brother, 
 from the water; 'tis more deadly than the downward 
 stroke.' 
 
 And as they sat side by side, speaking quietly, almost 
 indifferently, the evening call to prayer rang out over the 
 wild, wicked stream, and without another word they faced 
 round from the river to the western hills. The parapet 
 of Miriam's house stood out higher than the rest of the 
 village. Perhaps they made it the Kaaba of their prayers, 
 though they were orthodox enough in their genuflexions. 
 
 ' Hussan and Husayn have been made by the Pir sahib 
 to swear they will not fight any more,' said a girl, who 
 giggled as she spoke, to Miriam when they were coming 
 back with their water-pots from the river. 
 
 ( Lohl there be plenty others who will,' answered the 
 round, sweet voice that had not yet come to its full sweet-
 
 2&> THE SWIMMERS 
 
 ness and roundness. 'They are all like fighting-cocks, 
 except the shepherds. Belike 'tis the sheep which make 
 them peaceful, so they have time to laugh. Hussan and 
 Husayn are ever breathless from some struggle. I would 
 not be as they.' 
 
 1 Lazybones ! ' retorted the giggler. ' Thy mother-in-law 
 will need her tongue. Thy water-pot is but half-full even 
 now.' 
 
 'Still, it is heavy enough for my arms,' replied the sweet 
 voice indifferently, yet sharply, ' and the river is far.' Then 
 it added inconsequently : ' But there are streams up in the 
 hills that folk can guide to their doors. And the grass 
 grows soft too. Here is nothing but stones ; I hate them ; 
 they are so hard.' 
 
 ' And the big shepherd's mother is dead,' put in another 
 girl pertly ; whereat the rest giggled louder than ever. 
 
 Was it Hussan or Husayn who, three days afterwards, 
 appeared suddenly before the District-officer in camp with 
 a nicely written petition on a regulation sheet of English- 
 made paper, requesting that he might be put on as a 
 swimming patrol on the river opposite Sitana in place of 
 one who was supposed to have been killed or drowned ? 
 There is no need to know. No need to know which it 
 was who won the toss when Husayn came back with a 
 smile to say that, so far, they were quits, and might begin 
 a new game. Whichever it was, John Nicholson looked 
 at the lean bronze thews and sinews approvingly, and then 
 asked the one crucial question, ' Can you ? ' 
 
 The man smiled, a quick, broad smile. ' None better, 
 Huzoor, on the Indus. There is one, over the water, who 
 deems himself my match. God knows if he is.' 
 
 John Nicholson, who had bent over his writing again,
 
 THE SWIMMERS 281 
 
 glanced up hastily. ' So that is it. Here, moonshee, write 
 an order to the man at Khanpur to put this man on at 
 once.' He was back at his writing almost before the order 
 was ended, and in the silence which followed under the 
 white wings of the tent set wide to all the winds of heaven, 
 the sound of two pens could be heard. One was the 
 Englishman's, writing a report to headquarters saying that 
 the increase of crime must be checked by reprisals, the 
 other the natives bidding the inspector put on the bearer 
 as a Government swimmer. 
 
 ' For signature, Huzoorj came a deferential voice, and 
 the still-busy pen shifted itself to the shiny paper laid beside 
 it, and the dark, keen, kindly eyes looked up once more for 
 half a second. ' Well, good luck to you 1 I hope you '11 
 kill him, whoever he is.' 
 
 ' By the help of God, Huzoor, by the help of God ! ' 
 Which was it, Hussan or Husayn, who in the growing 
 dusk walked up and down the shaly glacis below the long 
 cluster of Sitana, watching the opposite bank with the eyes 
 of a lynx for each stone of vantage, each shallow whence a 
 few yards' start might be gained ? Which was it, Husayn 
 or Hussan, who in the same dusk paced up and down the 
 low bank on the other side watching in his turn, with 
 untiring eyes, for the quicker curve of the current where a 
 bold swimmer might by one swift venture drift down faster 
 to the calmer water, and so have a second or two in which 
 to regain breath ere the fight began? What matters it 
 whether the panther was on the western bank and the 
 leopard on the eastern ? They were two wild beasts pacing 
 up and down, up and down, with their feet upon the water's 
 edge; up and down, up and down, even when the moon 
 rose and their shadows showed more distinctly than they
 
 282 THE SWIMMERS 
 
 did themselves; for the oil upon their limbs caught the 
 light keenly like the glistening shale and the glistening wet 
 sand at their feet. Up and down, up and down, they 
 paced, in the stillness and the peace, with only the noise 
 of the rushing river, slumberously, monotonously, insistent ; 
 the up and down, up and down till the cry of the muazzim 
 at dawn came echoing over the water. 
 
 Prayer is more than sleep I Prayer is more than sleep ! 
 
 Ay ! more even than sleeplessness with sheer murder in 
 heart and brain. So peace fell between those two while 
 they turned towards Mecca and prayed; for what, God 
 knows. Perhaps once more the real spiritual Kaaba was 
 what they saw with the eyes of the flesh ; that flat-roofed 
 house just beginning to blush rosy in the earliest rays of 
 the rising sun; more probably it was not, since they had 
 passed through love to hatred. And then, prayers over, 
 murder was over also for the time, since they could not 
 court detection by daylight. 
 
 ( They are wondrous keen on the other side, despite the 
 moon,' said the elders of the village and the officials over 
 the way, alike; ' but there is no fear our watchman will be 
 taken at a disadvantage. He is there from dusk till dawn.' 
 
 'Ay!' replied wiseacres on either side; 'but when the 
 moon wanes, what then ? ' 
 
 It came even before that, came with a great purple mass 
 of thunder-clouds making the Black Mountain beyond the 
 Mahaban deserve its name, and drawing two pair of eyes, 
 one on either side of the stream, into giving hopeful glances 
 at the slow majestic march of gloom across the sky. It 
 was dusk an hour sooner, dawn an hour later than usual 
 that night and day, so there was plenty of time for sheer 
 murder before prayer-time. And as there was no storm,
 
 THE SWIMMERS 283 
 
 no thunder after all, but only the heavy clouds hanging 
 like a curtain over the moon, a faint splash into the rushing 
 river might hive been heard some time in the night, fol- 
 lowed by another. Then after a while a cry broke the 
 brooding silence above the hurrying whisper below; the 
 cry of faith, and fate, and fight. 
 
 Allah-ho-Akhbar I Allah-ho-hukk I 
 
 Perhaps it was the muazzim again, proclaiming out of 
 due time that 'God is Might and Right'; or may be it 
 was those two swimmers in the river as they caught sight 
 of each other in the whirling water. If so, Hussan struck 
 upwards from the water, no doubt, and Husayn, mindful 
 of advice, followed suit ; and so the six black heads must 
 have gone drifting down stream peacefully, save for the 
 hatred in the two faces glaring at each other, since the 
 river hid their blows decorously. But there was no trace 
 of them on it far or near when the sun rose over the eastern 
 hills, and the big shepherd, singing a guttural love-song, 
 came leaping down the stony path towards Sitana with a 
 bunch of red rhododendrons behind his ear. 
 
 Some days afterwards, however, the native official at the 
 Police Station rode over to see his superior, and reported 
 with a smirk that he had seen through the telescope a great 
 weeping and wailing at Sitana. Two of their swimmers had 
 apparently been killed in fair fight, for their bodies had been 
 brought up for burial from the backwater further down the 
 river ; and as the new man, whom the Huzoor had ap- 
 pointed, had either absconded or been killed also that just 
 made the proportion what his Honour had laid down for 
 future guidance, two to one. 
 
 ' H'm ! ' said John Nicholson half to himself, ' I wonder 
 which of the two was really the better man.'
 
 THE FAKEER'S DRUM 
 
 'O/ most almighty wictoria, V.R., reg. britannicorum 
 ( V. /., Kaiser-i-Hind], please ad/nit bearer to privileges of 
 praising God on the little drum as occasion befitteth, and your 
 petitioner will ever pray? etc. 
 
 IT was written on a scrap of foreign paper duly stamped 
 as a petition, and it did not need the interpolation of 
 imperial titles to prove that this was not by any means its 
 first appearance in court. To be plain, it had an ' ancient 
 and a fish-like smell,' suggestive of many years' acquaint- 
 ance with dirty humanity. I looked at the man who had 
 presented it a very ordinary fakeer, standing with hands 
 folded humbly and was struck by the wistful expectancy 
 in his face. It was at once hopeful yet hopeless. Turning 
 to the court-reader for explanation, I found a decorous 
 smile flowing round the circle of squatting clerks. It was 
 evidently an old-established joke. 
 
 ' He is damnably noiseful man, sir,' remarked my 
 sarishtidar cheerfully, 'and his place of sitting close to 
 Deputy-Commissioner's bungalow. Thus European officers 
 object; so it is always na-munzoor' (refused). 
 
 The sound of the familiar formula drove the hope from 
 the old man's face ; his thin shoulders seemed to droop, but 
 he said nothing. 
 
 'How long has this been going on ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Fourteen years, sir. Always on transference of officers, 
 
 284
 
 THE FAKEER'S DRUM 285 
 
 and it is always na-munzoor? He dipped his pen in the 
 ink, gave it the premonitory flick. 
 
 ' Munzoor' ('Granted'), said I, in a sudden decision. 
 ' Munzoor during the term of my office.' 
 
 That was but a month. I was only a locum tenens during 
 leave. Only a month, and the poor old beggar had waited 
 fourteen years to praise God on the little drum ? The pathos 
 and bathos of it hit me hard ; but a stare of infinite surprise 
 had replaced the circumambient smile. Thefa&eer himself 
 seemed flabbergasted. I think he felt lost without his peti- 
 tion, for I saw him fumbling in his pocket as the janissaries 
 hustled him out of court, as janissaries love to do, east or west. 
 
 That night, as I was wondering if I had smoked enough 
 and yawned enough to make sleep possible in a hundred 
 degrees of heat and a hundred million mosquitoes, I was 
 suddenly reminded of the proverb ' Charity begins at home.' 
 It had, with a vengeance. I had thought my sarishtidar's 
 language a trifle too picturesque ; now I recognised its 
 supreme accuracy. The fakeer was ' a damnably noiseful 
 man.' It is useless trying to add one iota to this description, 
 especially to those unacquainted with the torture of an 
 Indian drum. By dawn I was in the saddle, glad to escape 
 from my own house and the ceaseless ' Rumpa-tum-tumj 
 which was driving me crazy. 
 
 When I returned, the old man was awaiting me in the 
 verandah, his face full of a great content, and the desire to 
 murder him, which rose up in me with the thought of the 
 twenty-nine nights yet to come, faded before it. Perfect 
 happiness is not the lot of many, but apparently it was his. 
 He salaamed down to the ground. * Huzoorj he said, ' the 
 great joy in me created a disturbance last night. It will 
 not occur again. The Protector of the Poor shall sleep in
 
 286 THE FAKEER'S DRUM 
 
 peace, even though his slave praises God for him all night 
 long. The Almighty does not require a loud drum.' 
 
 I said I was glad to hear it, and my self-complacency 
 grew until I laid my head on the pillow somewhat earlier 
 than usual. Then I became aware of a faint throbbing 
 in the air, like that which follows a deep organ note a 
 throbbing which found its way into the drum of my ear and 
 remained there so faint that it kept me on the rack to 
 know if it had stopped or was still going on. ' Rumpa- 
 
 tum-tum-tum, rumpa-tum-tum-tum> rumpa ' Even now 
 
 the impulse to make the hateful rhythm interminable seizes 
 on me. I have to lay aside my pen and take a new one 
 before going on. 
 
 I draw a veil over the mental struggle which followed. 
 It would have been quite easy to rescind my permission, 
 but the thought of one month versus fourteen years roused 
 my pride. As representative of the 'almighty wictoria, 
 reg. britannicorum' etc., I had admitted this man to the 
 privileges of praising God on the little drum, and there was 
 an end of it. But the effort left my nerves shattered with 
 the strain put on them. It was the middle of the hot 
 weather that awful fortnight before the rains break I was 
 young absolutely alone. Every morning as I rode, a 
 perfect wreck, past the fakeer's hovel by the gate, he used 
 to ask me if I had slept well, and I lied to him. What was 
 the use of suffering if no one was the happier for it ? 
 
 At last, one evening it was the twenty-first, I remember, 
 for I ticked them off on a calendar like any schoolboy 
 I sat out among the oleanders, knowing that sleep was 
 mine. The rains had broken, a cool wind stirred the 
 dripping trees, the fever of unrest was over. Clouds of 
 winged white ants besieged the lamp : what wonder, when 
 the rafters of the old bungalow were riddled almost beyond
 
 THE FAKEER'S DRUM 287 
 
 the limits of safety by their galleries ? But what did I care ? 
 I was going to sleep. And so I did, like a child, until 
 close on the dawn. And then by heavens, it was too bad! 
 In the verandah surely, not faint, but loudly imperative : 
 
 ' RUMPA-TUM-TUM-TUM ! ' 
 
 I was out of bed in an instant full of fury. The fiend 
 incarnate must be walking round the house. I was after 
 him in the moonlight. Not a sign ; the white oleanders 
 were shining in the dark foliage; a firefly or two 
 nothing more. 
 
 ' Rumpa-tum-tum-tum ! ' Fainter this time round the 
 corner. 
 
 Not there ! 
 
 ' Rumpa-tum-tum-tum I ' A mere whisper now, but loud 
 enough to be traced. So, on the track, I was round the 
 house to the verandah whence I had started. 
 
 No sign no sound ! 
 
 Gracious ! what was that ? A crash, a thud, a roar and 
 rattle of earth ! The house ! the roof ! 
 
 When by the growing light of dawn we inspected the 
 damage, we found the biggest rafter of all lying right across 
 the pillow where my head had been two minutes before. 
 The first sunbeams were on the still sparkling trees when, 
 full of curiosity, I strolled over to ihefa&eer's hut. It also 
 was a heap of ruins, and when we dug the old man out from 
 among the ant-riddled rafters the doctor said he had been 
 dead for many hours. 
 
 This story may seem strange to some ; others will agree 
 with my sarishtidar, who, after spending the morning over a 
 Johnson's dictionary and a revenue report, informed me that 
 ' such catastrophes are but too common in this unhappy 
 land after heavy rain following on long-continued drought.'
 
 AT HER BECK AND CALL 
 
 ' WHAT is your name ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Phooli-jan, Huzoorj she answered, with a brilliant, 
 dazzling smile. 
 
 I sat looking at her, wondering if a more appropriate 
 name could have been found for that figure among the 
 anemones and celandines, the primulas, pansies, and 
 pinks the thousand-and-one blossoms which, glowing 
 against their groundwork of forget-me-not, formed a jewel- 
 mosaic right to the foot of the snows above us. Flowerful 
 life! Truly that was hers. She had a great bunch of 
 scarlet rhododendron stuck behind her ear, matching the 
 cloth cap perched jauntily on her head, and as she sat 
 herding her buffaloes on the upland she had threaded 
 chaplet on chaplet of ox-eyed daisies, and hung them about 
 her wherever they could be hung. The result was dis-. 
 tinctly flowerful ; her face also was distinctly pretty, distinctly 
 clean for a Kashmiri girl's. But coquette, flirt, minx, 
 was written in every line of it, and accounted for a most 
 unusual neatness and brightness. 
 
 She caught my eye and smiled again, broadly, innocently. 
 
 'The Huzoor would like to paint my picture, wouldn't 
 he?' she went on, in a tone of certainty. 'The Sahib who 
 came last year gave me five rupees. I will take six this 
 year. Food is dear, and those base-born contractors of the 
 Maharajah seize everything one walnut in ten, one 
 chicken in ten/
 
 AT HER BECK AND CALL 289 
 
 But I was not going to be beguiled into the old complaints 
 I could hear any and every day from the hags of the 
 village. Up here on the murg, within a stone's-throw of 
 the first patch of snow picketing the outskirts of the great 
 glacier of Gwashbrari, I liked, if possible, to forget how vile 
 man could be in the little shingle huts clustering below by 
 the river. I will not describe the place. To begin with, 
 it defies description, and next, could I even hint at its 
 surpassing beauty, the globe-trotter would come and defile 
 it. It is sufficient to say that a murg is an upland meadow 
 or alp, and that this one, with its forget-me-nots and spark- 
 ling glaciers, was like a turquoise set in diamonds. I had 
 seated myself on a projecting spur, whence I could sketch 
 a frowning defile northwards, down which the emerald- 
 green river was dashing madly among huge rocks crowned 
 by pine-trees. 
 
 ' I will give five rupees also ; that is plenty,' I remarked 
 suavely, and Phooli-jan smiled again. 
 
 'It must do, for I like being painted. Only a few 
 Sahibs come, very few ; but whenever they see me they 
 want to paint me and the flowers, and it makes the other 
 
 girls in the village angry. Then Goloo and Chuchchu ' 
 
 Here she went off into a perfect cascade of smiles, and 
 began to pull the eyelashes off the daisies deliberately. 
 There seems a peculiar temptation in girlhood for cruelty 
 towards flowers all over the world, and Phooli-jan was 
 pre-eminently girlish. She looked eighteen, but I doubt 
 if she was really more than sixteen. Even so, it was odd 
 to find her unappropriated, so I inquired if Goloo or 
 Chuchchu was the happy man. 
 
 'My mother is a widow,' she replied, without the least 
 hesitation. ' It depends which will pay the most, for we 
 
 T
 
 290 AT HER BECK AND CALL 
 
 are poor. There are others, too, so there is no hurry. 
 They are at my beck and call.' 
 
 She crooked her forefinger and nodded her head as if 
 beckoning to some one. For sheer light-hearted, innocent 
 enjoyment of her own attraction I never saw the equal of 
 that face. I should have made my fortune if I could have 
 painted it there in the blazing sunlight, framed in flowers ; 
 but it was too much for me. Therefore, I asked her to 
 move to the right, further along the promontory, so that I 
 could put her in the foreground of the picture I had already 
 begun. 
 
 ' There, by that first clump of iris,' I said, pointing to a 
 patch of green sword-leaves, where the white and lilac 
 blossoms were beginning to show. 
 
 She gave a perceptible shudder. 
 
 ' What ? Sit on a grave ! Not I. Does not the Huzoor 
 know that those are graves ? It is true. All our people 
 are buried here. We plant the iris over them always. If 
 you ask why, I know not. It is the flower of death.' 
 
 A sudden determination to paint her, the Flowerful Life 
 against the Flowerful Death, completely obliterated the 
 knowledge of my own incompetence; but I urged and 
 bribed in vain. Phooli-jan would not stir. She would not 
 even let me pick a handful of the flowers for her to hold. 
 It was unlucky ; besides, one never knew what one might 
 find in the thickets of leaves bones and horrid things. 
 Had I never heard that dead people got tired of their graves 
 and tried to get out. Even if they only wanted something 
 in their graves they would stretch forth a hand to get it. 
 That was one reason why people covered them up with 
 flowers just to make them more contented. 
 
 The idea of stooping to cull a flower and shaking hands
 
 AT HER BECK AND CALL 291 
 
 with a corpse was distinctly unpleasant, even in the sun- 
 light ; so I gave up the point and began to sketch the girl 
 as she sat. Rather a difficult task, for she chattered in- 
 cessantly. Did I see that thin blue thread of smoke in the 
 dark pall of pine-trees covering the bottom of the valley ? 
 That was Goloo's fire. He was drying orris root for the 
 Maharajah. There, on the opposite murg, where the 
 buffaloes showed dark among the flowers, was Chuchchu's 
 hut. Undoubtedly, Chuchchu was the richer, but Goloo 
 could climb like an ibex. It was he whom the Huzoor was 
 going to take as a guide to the peak. He could dance, too. 
 The Huzoor should see him dance the circle dance round 
 the fire no one turned so slowly as Goloo. He would 
 not frighten a young lamb, except when he was angry 
 well, jealous, if the Huzoor thought that a better word. 
 
 By the time she had done chattering there was not a 
 petal left on the ox-eyed daisies, and I was divided between 
 pity and envy towards Goloo and Chuchchu. 
 
 That evening, as usual, I set my painting to dry on the 
 easel at the door of the tent. As I lounged by the camp 
 fire, smoking my pipe, a big young man, coming in with a 
 jar of buffalo milk on his shoulder and a big bunch of red 
 rhododendron behind his ear, stopped and grinned at my 
 caricature of Phooli-jan. Five minutes after, down by the 
 servants' encampment, I heard a free fight going on, and 
 strolled over to see what was the matter. After the manner 
 of Kashmiri quarrels, it had ended almost as it began ; for 
 the race love peace. That it had so ended was not, how- 
 ever, I saw at a glance, the fault of the smaller of the 
 antagonists, who was being forcibly held back by my 
 shikari. 
 
 'Chuchchu, that man there, wanted to charge Goloo,
 
 292 AT HER BECK AND CALL 
 
 this man here, the same price for milk as he does your 
 honour,' explained the shikari elaborately. 'That was ex- 
 tortionate, even though Goloo, being the Huzoor's guide 
 for to-morrow, may be said to be your honour's servant for 
 the time. I have settled the matter justly. The Huzoor 
 need not give thought to it.' 
 
 I looked at the two recipients of Phooli-jan's favour with 
 interest for that the bunches of red rhododendron they 
 both wore were her gift I did not doubt. They were both 
 fine young men, but Goloo was distinctly the better-looking 
 of the two, if a trifle sinister. 
 
 Despite the recommendation of my shikari to cast 
 thought aside, the incident lingered in my memory, and I 
 mentioned it to Phooli-jan when, on returning to finish my 
 sketch, I found her waiting for me among the flowers. 
 Her smile was more brilliant than ever. 
 
 ' They will not hurt each other,' she said. ' Chuchchu 
 knows that Goloo is more active, and Goloo knows that 
 Chuchchu is stronger. It is like the dogs in our village.' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of them,' I replied ; ' I was thinking 
 of you. Supposing they were to quarrel with you ? ' 
 
 She laughed. ' They will not quarrel. In summer-time 
 there are plenty of flowers for everybody.' 
 
 I thought of those red rhododendrons, and could not 
 repress a smile at her barefaced wisdom of the serpent. 
 
 'And in the winter-time?' 
 
 ' Then I will marry one of them, or some one. I have 
 only to choose. That is all. They are at my beck and 
 call.' 
 
 Three years passed before recurring leave enabled me 
 to pay another visit to the murg. The rhododendrons
 
 AT HER BECK AND CALL 293 
 
 were once more on the uplands, and as I turned the last 
 corner of the pine-set path which threaded its way through 
 the defile I saw the meadow before me, with its mosaic of 
 flowers bright as ever. The memory of Phooli-jan came 
 back to me as she had sat in the sunshine nodding and 
 beckoning. 
 
 ' Phooli-jan ? ' echoed the old patriarch who came out to 
 welcome me as I crossed the plank bridge to the village, 
 ' Phooli-jan, the herd-girl ? Huzoor, she is dead ; she died 
 from picking flowers. A vain thing. It was at the turn 
 beyond the murg, Huzoor, half-way betweeen Chuchchu's 
 hut and Goloo's drying stage. There is a big rhododen- 
 dron tree hanging over the cliff, and she must have fallen 
 down. It is three years gone.' 
 
 Three years ; then it must have happened almost im- 
 mediately after I left the valley. The idea upset me ; I 
 knew not why. The murg without that Flowerful Life 
 nodding and beckoning felt empty, and I found myself 
 wondering if indeed the girl had fallen down, or if she had 
 played with flowers too recklessly and one of her lovers, 
 perhaps both It was an idea which dimmed the sun- 
 shine, and I was glad that I had arranged not to remain for 
 the night, but to push on to another meadow, some six 
 miles further up the river. To do so, however, I required 
 a fresh relay of coolies, and while my shikari was arranging 
 for this in the village I made my way by a cross-cut to the 
 promontory, with its patches of iris. 
 
 Deaths are rare in these small communities, and there 
 were but two or three new graves all but one too recent 
 to be poor Phooli-jan's. That, then, must be hers, with 
 its still clearly denned oblong of iris, already a mass of pale 
 purple and white.
 
 294 AT HER BECK AND CALL 
 
 I sat down on a rock and began, unromantically, to eat 
 my lunch, finishing up with a pull at my flask, and thus pro- 
 videntially fortified, I stooped, ere leaving, to pick one or 
 two of the blossoms from the grave, intending to paint 
 them round the sketch of the girl's head which I had with 
 me. 
 
 Great heavens ! what was that ? 
 
 I turned positively sick with horror and doubt. Was it 
 a hand ? It was some time before I could force myself to 
 set aside the sheathing leaves and settle the point. Some- 
 thing it was, something which, even as I parted the stems, 
 fell to pieces, as the skeleton of a beckoning hand might 
 have done. I did not stay to see more ; I let the flowers 
 close over it whatever it was and made my way back to 
 the village. My baggage, having changed shoulders, was 
 streaming out over the plank bridge again, and in the two 
 first bearers, carrying my cook room pots and pans, I re- 
 cognised Goloo and Chuchchu. They had both grown 
 stouter, and wore huge bunches of red rhododendron be- 
 hind their ears. I found out, on inquiry, that they were 
 both married, and had become bosom friends. 
 
 I have not seen the turquoise set in diamonds since, but 
 I often think of it, and wonder what it was I saw among 
 the iris. And then I seem to see Phooli-jan sitting among 
 the flowers, nodding her head and saying, ' They are at 
 my beck and call.' 
 
 If I were Goloo or Chuchchu, I would be buried some- 
 where else.
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 IT was the very last place in the world where you would 
 have expected to hear the notes of a church harmonium ; 
 and the old man who, seated on a reed stool, was playing 
 God Save the Queen with one finger, was the very last 
 person whom you would have expected to see performing 
 upon it. But there it stood, quite at home, between the 
 wooden pillars which divided the central living-room from 
 the crowd of latticed closets around it ; and there he sat, 
 quite at home, on the stool, his naked brown legs strug- 
 gling with the bellows, his brown fingers patting down the 
 keys with a sort of pompous precision. For Punoo was a 
 music-master, and that was his pupil who, with a yawn, 
 was watching his proceedings from the floor while she 
 threaded beads on a string intermittently. That was also 
 the last place from which one would expect any one to take 
 a music-lesson ; but old Punoo, being blind, was fully 
 persuaded that Bahani was dutifully at his elbow. This 
 blindness of his was, however, far more to his advantage 
 than his disadvantage as a master. It was, in short, the 
 cause of his being one at all ; since had he had the use of 
 his eyes no mother would have dreamed of employing a 
 man, who was not more than forty-five at the outside, in 
 teaching her girls. As it was, his time was fully taken up 
 in the houses of the clerks, contractors, barristers, and 
 
 295
 
 296 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 such like, who for some reason or another desired to impart 
 the exotic accomplishment of music to their daughters or 
 wives. But of all these houses Punoo loved the one which 
 contained the harmonium best ; not because of his pupil, 
 since Bahani, who was betrothed to a young man who 
 might be seen any day on a Hammersmith omnibus over 
 on the other side of the world, never learned anything ; 
 but because of the instrument itself. To tell truth, it had 
 quite a fine tone, especially when all the wind in its wheezy 
 bellows was sent into one note. And then the playing of 
 it seemed to satisfy him from head to foot. All the other 
 instruments, the accordions and concertinas, even his own 
 fiddle with seven strings, of which he was really very fond, 
 only employed his head and his hands ; but this made his 
 whole body as it were to toil and labour after melody. 
 As he sat, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, the 
 expression on his sightless face, turned upwards, all uncon- 
 scious of the dingy, sordid, smoke-blackened rafters which 
 limited his vision, was quite sufficient to make up for the 
 lack of it in the music ; it was the expression of a prisoner 
 who, through the bars of a cage, sees freedom. But the 
 odd little gridiron in the centre of the dark room, which 
 gave it some light and air from the roof above, was scarcely 
 large enough to allow even of Pundb's wizened figure 
 passing through. 
 
 ' Lo, it gives one a melting of the liver, and a sinking of 
 the heart to hear thee, Master^//,' remarked Mai Kishnu, 
 bustling in with a handful of radishes for the pickle-stew. 
 ' Canst not play something more lively, something that 
 goes not wombling up and down like an ill-greased wheel, 
 something with a count in it that gives a body time to 
 catch the beat of it ? For sure I could make better music
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 297 
 
 with my ladle and tray ; better music for a bride anyhow; 
 and mark my word, Bahani, when thou art really one, there 
 shall be none of this boo-hooin% and <nv-wowing, that might 
 set free thoughts of wolves and God knows what monsters 
 to damage all thy hopes.' 
 
 ' 'Tis not likely, Mai,' said Punoo, desisting to speak 
 with great dignity, 'that Bahani will have mastered so 
 much. 'Tis not given to all to p^y God Save the Queen 
 as I do.' 
 
 ' That is good hearing ! ' ejaculated the house-mother 
 piously. ' But the girl gets on, I hope, Master Punoo. 
 Her father writes of it often ; and the instrument, as thou 
 knowest, cost fully ten shillings.' 
 
 In Punoo's account, which he retailed to his other 
 customers, it had cost five times that amount, and he had 
 a spirited description of the auction where Colonels and 
 Deputy-Sahibs, and Barrack-Masters had bidden in vain 
 against Bahani's father Mool Chand, who was municipal 
 clerk in an outlying district. According to Punoo also it 
 had cost five hundred times that amount when the Padre 
 Sahib sometimes it was the Lord Padre Sahib (the 
 Bishop) had sent for it originally from England. There 
 was a further legend, vague and misty even to himself, 
 which he kept holy, as it were, from profane use by locking 
 it away in his own breast, which hinted that the harmonium 
 had been thrown on the market from no desire to get rid 
 of it, but simply from pecuniary necessity, the Chaplain 
 having been forced into selling his greatest treasure in 
 order to pay the bill for a new one. To tell truth, Punoo's 
 estimate of the harmonium was vague and misty on more 
 points than this. He was, in fact, absolutely ignorant of 
 anything concerning it, save that if you blew persistently at
 
 298 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 the bellows and pressed the keys it made a noise which 
 somehow or other seemed to set you free, and yet kept you 
 longing for something more. Punoo knew not for what, 
 having not the slightest idea that he had been born with 
 music in his soul, and that if he had first seen the light in 
 the Western hemisphere instead of the Eastern, he would 
 most likely have been a Wagnerite, or some other kind of 
 musical enthusiast. 
 
 As it was, to oblige Mai Kishnu, he played Minnia 
 Punnieya as quickly as he could, though it was a pain and 
 grief to him to give up the long-drawn notes which sounded 
 so beautiful in God Save our Gracious Queen. But Mai 
 Kishnu stirred the pickle-stew to the new rhythm, emphasis- 
 ing it properly with little strokes of the ladle upon the 
 resounding brass pot. Bahani, she said, must learn that 
 tune against her man's return from being made into a 
 balester (barrister), whereat Bahani with the utmost decorum 
 giggled and blushed over her beads. She was a pretty, pert 
 girl, who looked upon the future with perfect serenity ; for 
 being married to her first cousin, whose widowed mother 
 lived in the house, she knew exactly what the amount of 
 friction between her and her future mother-in-law would be ; 
 and knew also that she would generally be able to escape 
 quietly, as she did now, from the scene of conflict, and leave 
 the two elder women to have it out at full length if they 
 chose. They generally did choose, because they nearly 
 always had an interested audience ; for the quaint rambling 
 old house with its rabbit-warren of tiny rooms opening out 
 to little bits of roof, was full of relations, chiefly women 
 whose husbands were away in Government employ. They 
 each had a separate lodging, as it were, though they were 
 quite as often in some one else's room as in their own,
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 299 
 
 especially when the sound of shrill altercation echoed 
 through the wooden partitions. By a recognised etiquette, 
 however, all serious disputes were carried on in the well- 
 room where the women bathed. It was more a verandah 
 than a room, though the arches were filled up breast-high 
 with a screening wall. But through the hole in the floor, 
 above which the windlass stood, you could not only see 
 right down into the well on the basement story, but also see 
 the people in the street coming for their water. It was 
 when Bahani was discovered lying flat on the floor so as to 
 crane over and peep into the very street itself, that the 
 fiercest quarrels arose between Mai Kishnu and her widowed 
 sister-in-law. And no quarrel ever ran its course without a 
 reference of some sort to the harmonium, and the iniquity 
 and idiocy of learning to play tunes as if you were a bad 
 woman in the bazaar. In her heart of hearts Mai Kishnu 
 agreed with this view of the question, but she would sooner 
 have died than confess it, so she invariably carried the war 
 into the enemy's country instead by insisting on it that 
 Bahani learned in deference to the oft-expressed desire of 
 her lawful husband, that husband being the complainant's 
 own son. And sometimes, but not often, for she was a 
 faithful defender of the absent municipal clerk, she would 
 clinch the matter by telling her sister-in-law that if there was 
 iniquity or idiocy about, her brother was also to blame. 
 Whereupon Radha, who, being the widow of an elder 
 brother, really was, in a way, the head of the house, would 
 retort that in that case it was all the more necessary for the 
 women-folk of the family to remember that the salvation of 
 souls lay with them ; so she would beg to remind all present, 
 that this being a dark Saturday or a light Friday, with some 
 particular event in prospect or some particular event in the
 
 300 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 past, it behoved no pious woman of that family to eat, say 
 radishes, on that day. Now, when you have just spent much 
 time and skill in the preparing of pickles for a large house- 
 hold, it is aggravating to be told that it is an impious diet. 
 Still there was always the obvious retort that on such days 
 widows ate nothing at all. So then Radha, with pharisaical 
 acquiescence, would retire to her own little bit of a room, 
 with her husband's photograph (he had been a clerk also) 
 hung between two German prints of the Madonna and 
 Herodias's daughter (which did duty respectively for the 
 infant Krishna and Durga Devi slaying the demons) and 
 begin counting her beads with a clatter, and repeating her 
 texts in an aggressively loud voice ; while Mai Kishnu, after 
 sending the pickle-stew of radishes down in the window- 
 basket as an alms to the first beggar in the street, would 
 begin to cook something else ; something as nasty as her 
 deft hands could make it, since this, oddly enough, relieved 
 her feelings. 
 
 But Punoo would go on playing God Save our Gracious 
 Queen on the old harmonium with perfect serenity, all un- 
 conscious of the fact that two women were cursing it in their 
 hearts as a malevolent demon bent on ruining the household. 
 It was a quaint household when all was said and done, 
 this colony of women, whose husbands were for the most 
 part away serving the Government in remote stations. 
 Quaintest of all it was, perhaps, when in the afternoon the 
 boys belonging to it (and there were many, thank Heaven ! 
 despite the demon) came home from school ; embryo clerks 
 full of classes and examinations, yet with a word or two for 
 'crickets' and a desire for pickled radishes on every day in 
 the calendar.
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 301 
 
 'Ask your Aunt Radha,' Mai Kishnu would say shortly 
 to their remonstrances over the nasty substitute for the 
 delicacy. ' Twas she forced me into giving your stomachs'- 
 ful of my best pickles to some dirty beast of a beggar in the 
 street. God forgive me if he was a holy man, but he may 
 have been a Mohammedan for all I know, and what good 
 will that do to my soul ? ' 
 
 But despite the ' crickets ' and the examinations, despite 
 the vague leavening of Western free-thought, the boys 
 fought shy of their Aunt Radha, perhaps from the veil of 
 uncertainty which their education was necessarily throwing 
 over all things. There were so many ideas, and one must 
 be right ; it might be this one. In a way they were more 
 afraid of her and her views than Mai Kishnu was, who 
 never doubted at all. But then Mai Kishnu knew that 
 she could always have the upper hand over her sister- 
 in-law in the matter of cold baths in the winter mornings ; 
 for Radha thought twice about interfering with the 
 beams in other folks' eyes, when the mote of her own 
 about warm water for religious ablutions was ready to her 
 adversary's hand. 
 
 The boys, however, though they ate the nasty substi- 
 tute for pickles without more ado, were not so biddable 
 in the matter of God Save the Queen. As they sat on 
 the dark flight of steps between the living-room and the 
 well-verandah, they used to pipe away at it in English in 
 the oddest falsetto. And Bahani, who was a bit of a 
 tomboy, would imitate them, and then go into fits of shrill 
 laughter at her own gibberish. 
 
 Altogether it was a very quaint household, and it was a 
 very quaint noise indeed which went t:p to high Heaven
 
 302 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 from it ; the boys' voices, Bahani's mocking laugh, Radha's 
 muttered texts, Mai Kishnu's vexed clattering of her ladles 
 and pots, and blind Punoo's perspiring efforts after melody 
 on the old harmonium. For he never attempted harmony ; 
 that was beyond his self-taught execution altogether. But 
 the sense of it was there, showing itself in sheer delight at 
 pulling out all the stops that still existed, and blowing away 
 till he could no more from sheer exhaustion. 
 
 So the years had passed contentedly enough for every 
 one; especially for the old music-master, who every day 
 went away with the unleavened cake, which was his only 
 fee, knowing that even such payment was in excess of his 
 desires, since it was enough for him to have the honour and 
 glory of playing on the harmonium, and of boasting about 
 his proficiency on that instrument to his other pupils who 
 were forced to be content with an accordion or some such 
 ignoble instrument. 
 
 And then one day the funny old rambling house was in 
 a perfect ferment of preparation, and even Radha's face was 
 beaming ; for her son was coming home. He was coming 
 from the Hammersmith omnibus and the boarding-house 
 in Netting Hill, coming from the rush and roar of London, 
 to take up the threads of life again in the dark latticed 
 rooms where Mai Kishnu made pickles and his mother 
 said her prayers ; above all, where Bahani waited for him, 
 all dyed with turmeric and henna, and clothed in tinselled 
 garments. The little household temple up on the roof, 
 where there were more German prints doing duty as 
 various gods and goddesses, had scarcely an instant's 
 respite from the multitudinous rituals ; and if there was a 
 minute or two to spare, the women downstairs were sure
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 303 
 
 to remember something else which if left undone would 
 bring the most direful misfortune on the young couple. 
 There was no quarrelling now, only a babel of shrill, kindly 
 voices. And there was no music, save of a kind to which 
 Mai Kishnu could clatter her ladles and pans ; drubbings 
 of drums and endless tinklings of sutaras for the good 
 lady had set her foot down as regards the harmonium, even 
 to the extent of showing off Bahani's accomplishment. 
 Accomplishment forsooth ! What need was there of such 
 fools' talk between a newly-met young couple? And 
 though Gunesha had come back from the other side of the 
 world dressed like a real Sahib, that did not prevent his 
 being a young man, and knowing a pretty bride when he 
 saw one. So, thank Heaven ! there they were at last, in 
 the pleasant cool upper room on the roof, which had been 
 all newly whitewashed and painted and strewn with flowers 
 for the auspicious occasion, looking into each other's eyes 
 as young people should. It was all so proper, so touch- 
 ing, so infinitely satisfactory, that for once Kishnu and 
 Radha fell on each other's necks and wept tears of 
 sympathy. 
 
 But Punoo wandered in and out as a privileged guest 
 among the merry-making and the bustle, sidling up to his 
 closed treasure, feeling it all over in sightless fashion, and 
 longing for the time when he should be called upon, as the 
 bride's master, to display her accomplishment; for by this 
 time she could play Minnia Punnieya and a few other 
 tunes quite correctly. But the days passed, and those two 
 on the roof, despite music and culture, despite all the 
 sciences and all the 'ologies, were quite content with those 
 things which had contented their fathers and mothers
 
 304 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 before them. It was not so with old Punoo. Even his 
 fiddle afforded him no comfort; and though his other 
 pupils' accordions and concertinas gave him the correct 
 musical intervals which his ear approved instinctively, but 
 which his hand was too unpractised to reproduce with the 
 accuracy which satisfied him, they were poor substitutes 
 for that splendid tone which was born of vehement pump- 
 ing and perspiration. Perhaps it was really the latter he 
 craved, that feeling of labouring body and soul to give 
 expression to something within him. 
 
 Even billing and cooing like a couple of pigeons on the 
 roof, however, must come to an end, and after some three 
 weeks of it, the barrister one day discovered that there 
 was a harmonium in the dark arches of the living-room. 
 He was beginning by this time to think that he had per- 
 haps drifted a little too far back into the old life, and that 
 as he had every intention, when this first very natural and 
 inevitable relapse was over, of setting up house on more 
 civilised lines, it might be as well to show off his new habits 
 a little, and so emphasise the difference which he meant to 
 draw between his life and the life led in the quaint old 
 ancestral house. So without more ado, without any asking 
 of how it came there, or who played on it, he whisked his 
 coat-tails (for he had resumed European dress on his 
 descent from the roof) over the music-stool with the con- 
 summate air of a performer, and set his feet to the pedals 
 and his hands to the keys. 
 
 { What a wheezy old thing ! ' he cried, when a sort of 
 agonised moo as from a sick cow came in response. 
 Bahani, standing decorously in the shadow with her veil 
 down in most alluring bnshfulness, tittered, and old Punoo,
 
 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 305 
 
 who had stood still in sheer surprise, moved forward with a 
 superior smile. 
 
 The barrister heard and saw, and a frown came to his 
 self-satisfied face. 'The bellows are leaking/ he cried again; 
 ' but never mind, it shall do something ; I '11 make it ! ' 
 
 Something indeed ! The women giggled and stopped 
 their ears, but old Punoo stood transfixed, a great pain, a 
 great joy coming to his sightless face. Was that the har- 
 monium? Was that God Save the Queen, that paean of 
 melody and harmony together, coming in great waves of 
 sound and bearing him away, further and further and 
 further, into some unknown land that was yet a Land of 
 Promise ? And all these years he had lived in ignorance ; 
 he had boasted, he had said that he could play it, his price- 
 less treasure ! Priceless ! ay, he had been right there. 
 Listen to it ! Was it not priceless ? A sort of passion 
 of pride surged up in him, overpowering all thought of 
 himself. 
 
 Then there was a loud crack, a wheeze, a sudden silence, 
 and the barrister stood up wiping his forehead, for he had 
 worked hard. ' That has done for the old thing,' he said 
 with a laugh ; ' but it was past work anyhow, and I prefer 
 a piano any day of the week. Don't stand in the corner, 
 Bahani. You must learn to behave like an English lady 
 now, and there is nothing to be ashamed of in your hus- 
 band, I assure you.' 
 
 Mai Kishnu and Radha looked at each other as if for 
 support, and the vague affright and sheer surprise of their 
 faces made them once more sympathetic. ' It is a new 
 world, sister,' whispered the one to the other as they moved 
 off respectively to their prayers and their pickles, leaving 
 
 u
 
 306 MUSIC HATH CHARMS 
 
 the barrister making love to his bride over the prospect of 
 the piano he was going to give her. 
 
 But Punoo moved softly, blindly, over to his old seat, 
 and set his feet to the pedals and his fingers to the keys. 
 But no sound came from them, not even that poor travesty 
 of God Save the Queen which had once filled him with pride. 
 And as he sat fingering the dumb keys, idly, a dim content 
 that it should be so came into the old musician's soul. The 
 swan-song had been beautiful, but it had been a song of 
 death, He, after all, had known the harmonium best. 
 
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 at the Edinburgh University Press
 
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 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 
 
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 In One Volume, demy 8vo, with Frontispiece, price 155. net 
 
 The monumental twenty-eight volumes of Napoleon I.'s letters, 
 published under the direction of the Commission appointed by 
 Napoleon III. to edit and arrange his uncle's correspondence, were 
 by no means exhaustive. The Correspondence, as originally issued, 
 contained, indeed, some 22,000 pieces. Many of these, however, 
 were decrees, orders of the day, bulletins, &c., and the original 
 minutes in the French archives show a total of over 30,000 letters. It 
 is notorious that the Commission, of which Prince Napoleon was 
 President, exercised its prerogative of suppression with great freedom. 
 The reasons for its action in the matter are obvious. In some cases, 
 letters were set aside as wanting in interest, or as going over ground 
 already covered by other documents. But in the majority of instances, 
 a pardonable zeal for the family glory came into play, urging the with, 
 holding of anything that might dim the lustre of Napoleon's fame, or 
 reflect unpleasantly on his near relatives. Governed by considerations 
 of this nature, the Commission set aside a series of letters of extra- 
 ordinary historical interest some dealing with the quarrels of Napoleon 
 and his brothers, and the long struggle with the Pope, others con- 
 taining trenchant criticisms of the capacity and conduct of eminent 
 generals and officials, or bearing witness to the iron hand with which 
 the greatest organiser the world has ever seen, carried out his 
 " system," and ordered the affairs of the press, the police, and all the 
 minutiae of his vast economy. 
 
 The object of the two supplementary volumes recently published in 
 France is to repair these deliberate omissions, and to make the former 
 collection practically complete. A considerable part of these two 
 volumes is naturally wanting in novelty and interest. But they contain 
 so much that is fresh and new, so much of exceptional value historically, 
 and they throw so many new lights on the actors of that wonderful 
 drama of the First Empire, especially on the masterful character of its 
 creator, that the English publisher is confident that a selection, with 
 a view to the general interest felt for Napoleon I., is bound to be 
 welcome.
 
 ^Autumn ^Announcements 3 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 A Critical Study 
 
 By GEORG BRANDES, Ph.D. 
 
 Translated from the Danish by WILLIAM ARCHER and 
 DIANA WHITE 
 
 In Two Volumes, demy 8vo, price 245. 
 
 Dr. Georg Brandes's "William Shakespeare" may best be called, 
 perhaps, an exhaustive critical biography. Keeping fully abreast of the 
 latest English and German researches and criticism, Dr. Brandes pre- 
 serves that breadth and sanity of view which are apt to be sacrificed by 
 the mere Shakespearologist. He places the poet in his political and 
 literary environment, and studies each play not as an isolated phe- 
 nomenon, but as the record of a stage in Shakespeare's spiritual history. 
 Dr. Brandes has achieved German thoroughness without German 
 heaviness, and has produced what must be regarded as a standard 
 work. 
 
 CATHERINE SFORZA 
 
 A Study. By COUNT PASOLINI 
 
 Adapted from the Italian by PAUL SYLVESTER 
 Demy 8vo, with many Illustrations 
 
 Count Pasolini is a lineal descendant of the hereditary enemies of the 
 Sforza family. His work is enriched by numerous illustrations, fac- 
 similes of handwriting, seals, and quotations from some five hundred 
 letters of the Madonna of Forli. It combines the charm of romance 
 with the dignity of history, and brings within the reader's ken, not 
 only the militant princess who held the Fort of St. Angelo against 
 the Conclave (thus arresting the affairs of Europe until her own 
 were settled), who circumvented Machiavelli and defied Cesar Borgia, 
 but the private woman in her court and home, her domestic and 
 social relations. 
 
 A HISTORY OF THE LIVERPOOL 
 PRIVATEERS 
 
 And Letters of Marque, including the Slave Trade. 
 
 By GOMER WILLIAMS 
 In one Volume, demy 8vo, price 125. net 
 
 ROBERT, EARL NUGENT 
 
 A Memoir 
 
 By CLAUD NUGENT 
 
 In One Volume, demy 8vo, with a number of Portraits and 
 other Illustrations
 
 William Heinemanns 
 
 iSbucattonal 
 
 6rc.it BDucatora 
 Each subject forms a complete volume, crown Svo, 55. 
 
 THOMAS AND MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 And Their Influence on English Education 
 
 By Sir JOSHUA FITCH, M.A., LL.D., formerly Her 
 Majesty's Inspector of Training Colleges 
 
 Volumes Previously Published 
 
 Aristotle. By T. DAVIDSON 
 Loyola. By Rev.T. HUGHES, S.J. 
 Alcuin. By A. F. WEST 
 Froebel. By H. COCRTHOPE 
 BOWEN. 
 
 Abelard. By J. G. COMPAYR. 
 Herbart. By Prof. DE GARMO. 
 
 In Preparation volumes on 
 
 Rousseau; Horace Mann; 
 
 Pestalozzi 
 
 THE WOMEN OF HOMER 
 
 By WALTER COPLAND PERRY 
 With numerous Illustrations, large crown 8vo, 6s. 
 This work is intended to give to those who are interested 
 in Greek antiquity, but have not mastered the Greek language, some 
 insight into the Fairy World of Homer's Epics. 
 
 The Gods and Heroes of Homer have been much more frequently 
 portrayed than their female counterparts. The author has therefore 
 chosen " The Women of Homer" as his main subject, which may be 
 thought, in some respects, to be the more attractive of the two. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE GREEKS 
 
 By H. A. GRUEBER 
 
 Small crown Svo, 288 pp., with Illustrations 
 This Elementary History of Greece is intended for supplementary 
 reading or as a first text-book for young pupils ; for, while history proper 
 is largely beyond the comprehension of children, they are able at an early 
 age to understand and enjoy anecdotes of people, especially of those in 
 the childhood of civilisation. It has been the author's intention to 
 write a book which will give pleasure to read, and will thus counteract 
 the impression that history is uninteresting. 
 
 To be Published on Trafalgar Day, October 21 
 A SCHOOL PRIZE EDITION OF 
 
 THE LIFE OF NELSON 
 
 By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Poet Laureate 
 
 A New Edition. Edited by DAVID HANNAY 
 
 Crown Svo, with Portrait of Lord Nelson, after Hoppner 
 
 price 35. 6d.
 
 ^Autumn ^Announcements 5 
 
 A HISTORY OF DANCING 
 
 From the Earliest Ages to Our Own Times 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 GASTON VUILLIER 
 
 With 25 Plates in Photogravure and about 400 Illustrations in the Taxt 
 In One Volume, 4to. Price 365. net 
 
 Also 35 copies printed on Japanese Vellum (containing 3 additional 
 Plates), with a duplicate set of the plates on India paper for framing. 
 Each copy numbered and signed, price twelve guineas net. 
 
 Copious as are the incidental studies of the various phases of the 
 Art of Dancing, no comprehensive attempt has yet been made in our 
 own times to evolve from the rich material available a synthesis that 
 shall be not only a serious contribution to social history, but a treasury 
 of quaint information and artistic pleasure for those who wish to be 
 amused as well as instructed. M. Vuillier has undertaken this inter- 
 esting task. The History of Dancing is traced from its dawn in Egypt, 
 throughout all its developments in the sacred dances of the Hebrews, 
 the Greeks, the Romans, and the early Christians. The author 
 sketches the decline of religious feeling in this form of art, and the 
 gradual debasement of the poetry of motion to the level of licentious 
 pantomime. He deals with its renaissance in the age of chivalry, 
 notes the more animated and voluptuous character impressed on it by 
 Italian influences, and shows how the ballet, the masquerade, and the 
 masked ball were the outcome of this further development. From this 
 he passes on to the age far excellence of social pageants, the eighteenth 
 century, when dancing reached its apogee of elegance in the minuet and 
 the gavotte, and glancing at such sinister offshoots of the art as the 
 Carmagnole of the Revolution, depicts the rise of modern dancing, 
 signalised on the stage by the appearance of Taglioni and Fanny Elssler, 
 and in social life by the introduction of the waltz, the galop, and the 
 polka forerunners of the fashionable skirt-dance of the moment. 
 
 An Illustrated Prospectus on Application 
 
 JUDGE JEFFREYS 
 
 A Study 
 By H. B. IRVING 
 
 In One Volume
 
 W^illiam Heinemanri s 
 
 ^Literatures of tbe Morlfr 
 
 A SERIES OF SHORT HISTORIES 
 
 Edited by EDMUND GOSSE 
 Each Volume Large Crown 8vo, Cloth 6s. 
 
 A HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE 
 
 By EDWARD DOWDEN, D.C.L., LL.D., Professor 
 
 of Oratory and English Literature in the 
 
 University of Dublin 
 
 In October 
 
 A HISTORY OF MODERN ENGLISH 
 LITERATURE 
 
 By EDMUND GOSSE, Hon. M.A. of Trinity 
 College, Cambridge 
 
 In January 
 
 A HISTORY OF ITALIAN LITERATURE 
 
 By RICHARD GARNETT, C.B., LL.D., Keeper of 
 Printed Books in the British Museum 
 
 Previously published 
 
 A HISTORY OF ANCIENT GREEK LITERATURE. 
 
 By GILBERT MURRAY, M. A., Professor of Greek in the University 
 of Glasgow. 
 
 The Times. "A sketch to which the much-abused word 'brilliant' 
 may be justly applied. Dealing in 400 pages with a subject which is 
 both immense and well worn, Mr. Murray presents us with a treatment 
 at once comprehensive, penetrating and fresh. By dint of a clear, 
 freely moving intelligence, and by dint also of a style at once compact 
 and lucid, he has produced a book which fairly represents the best 
 conclusions of modern scholarship." 
 
 The Athenaum. "The book is brilliant and stimulating, while its 
 freshness of treatment and recognition of the latest German research 
 amply justify its existence. Professor Murray has made these old 
 Greek bones live."
 
 ^Autumn ^Announcements 7 
 
 In preparation the following volumes 
 
 A HISTORY OF SPANISH LITERATURE. By J. FITZ- 
 
 MAURICE-KELLY. 
 
 A HISTORY OF JAPANESE LITERATURE. By 
 
 WILLIAM GEORGE ASTON. C.M.G., M.A. 
 
 A HISTORY OF MODERN SCANDINAVIAN LITERA- 
 TURE. By Dr. GEORG BRANDES. 
 
 A HISTORY OF SANSCRIT LITERATURE. By A. A. 
 
 MACDONELL, M.A. 
 
 A HISTORY OF HUNGARIAN LITERATURE. By Dr. 
 
 ZOLTAN BEOTHY. 
 
 A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. By Pro 
 
 fessor MOSES COIT TYLER. 
 
 A HISTORY OF GERMAN LITERATURE. By Dr. 
 
 C. H. HERFORD. 
 
 A HISTORY OF LATIN LITERATURE. By Dr. A. W. 
 
 VERRALL. 
 
 Also volumes dealing with RUSSIAN, ARABIC, DUTCH, MODERN GREEK. 
 
 philosophy 
 
 THE NON-RELIGION OF THE FUTURE 
 
 From the French of MARIE JEAN GUYAU 
 In One Volume, demy 8vo, 175. net 
 
 This work traces the connection between religion, aesthetics and 
 morals, and the inevitable decomposition of all systems of dogmatic 
 religion. It also deals with the state of "non-religion " toward which the 
 human mind seems to tend. It explains the exact sense in which one 
 must understand the non-religion as distinguished from the " religion 
 of the future," and sets forth the value and utility, for the time being, 
 of religion. 
 
 Uniform with the above, price ijs. net each 
 
 By MAX NORDAU 
 Paradoxes 
 
 Conventional Lies of Our 
 Civilization 
 
 By MAX NORDAU 
 Degeneration 
 
 By Dr. WILLIAM HIRSCH 
 Genius and Degeneration
 
 8 JMr. William Heinemanns 
 travel 
 
 CUBA IN WARTIME 
 
 By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 Author of " Soldiers of Fortune " 
 
 With Numerous Illustrations by FREDERIC REMINGTON 
 Crown 8vo, price 35. 6d. 
 
 WITH THE FIGHTING JAPS 
 
 Naval Experiences during the late Chino- Japanese War 
 
 By J. CHALMERS 
 Crown 8vo. 
 
 MY FOURTH TOUR IN WESTERN 
 AUSTRALIA 
 
 By ALBERT F. CALVERT, F.R.G.S. 
 4to, with many Illustrations and Photographs, price 2 is. net. 
 
 IDerge 
 
 POEMS FROM THE DIVAN OF HAFIZ 
 
 Translated from the Persian by 
 
 GERTRUDE LOWTHIAN BELL 
 
 Small crown 8vo, price 6s. 
 
 A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS 
 OF WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT 
 
 With an Introduction by W. E. HENLEY 
 Crown 8vo, price 6s. 
 
 IN CAP AND GOWN 
 
 Three Centuries of Cambridge Wit 
 
 Selected and arranged by CHARLES WHIBLEY 
 A New Edition, with Frontispiece, price 35. 6d.
 
 *AuTumn ^Announcements 
 
 (great Hives anfr Events 
 
 Uniformly bound in cloth, price 6s. each 
 THE NEW VOLUME 
 
 SIXTY YEARS OF EMPIRE 
 
 A Symposium 
 
 With over 70 Portraits and Diagrams 
 
 This volume gathers together the remarkable series of articles which 
 attracted such general attention when they first appeared in the 
 Daily Chronicle, on the occasion of the Queen's Jubilee. Embracing as 
 they do the whole field of national and Imperial interests, written each 
 by an expert in the subject of which he treats (Sir Charles Dilke, Mr. 
 John Burns. Mr. A. B. Walkley and Mr. Joseph Pennell are among 
 the contributors), illustrated with portraits and diagrams, the papers 
 thus collected supply what this Jubilee year has hitherto failed to pro- 
 duce a brief, comprehensive and authoritative review of the period 
 covered by Her Majesty's reign. 
 
 The following volumes have been published in this Series 
 
 By K. WALISZEWSKI. 
 The Romance of an Empress. 
 
 Catherine II. of Russia. 
 
 The Story of a Throne. 
 
 Catherine II. of Russia. 
 
 By F. MASSON. 
 Napoleon and the Fair Sex. 
 
 By PAUL GAOLOT. 
 A Friend of the Queen. Marie 
 Antoinette and Count Fersen. 
 
 The Memoirs of the Prince 
 de Joinville. 
 
 By ARTHUR WAUGH 
 Alfred Lord Tennyson. 
 
 By EDMUND GOSSE. 
 The Naturalist of the Sea- 
 shore. The Life of Philip 
 Henry Gosse. 
 
 LUMEN 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price 35. 6d. 
 By CAMILLE FLAMMARION 
 
 M. Flammarion, the distinguished French astronomer, has in his 
 volume entitled Lumen added to his exact scientific knowledge a new and 
 interesting attempt to bring before his readers a speculative theory of 
 life in another planet. 
 
 In France the volume has been widely read, for more than 50,000 
 copies have been sold in the original.
 
 io 3\4r. William Heinemanri s 
 
 THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON 
 
 Edited by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 
 
 To be completed in Twelve Volumes 
 
 The Letters, Diaries, Controversies, Speeches, &c., in Four, 
 and the Verse in Eight 
 
 Small Crown 8vo, price 55. net each 
 
 VERSE VOLUME I. Containing "Hours of Idleness," 
 "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" and "Childe Harold." 
 With a Portrait after HOLMES. [/ October. 
 
 1. LETTERS, 1804-1813. With a Portrait after PHILLIPS. 
 
 [Is now ready. 
 
 " Mr. W. E. Henley is not only steeped to the lips in Byronic poetry, 
 but he has also a very familiar acquaintance with the remarkable 
 characters who formed ' the Byronic set ' and he knows the manners 
 and customs of the Regency epoch to an extent that gives him full 
 mastery of his subject. 
 
 " He manages to give in a few vigorous sentences vivid sketches of 
 the wide circle of Byron's friends and enemies." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " These Byron Letters (Vol. I.) Mr. Henley has annotated as never 
 surely were letters annotated before. His notes provide simply a com- 
 plete series of little biographies miniature biographies with such 
 vital selection, such concise completion without dry-as-dustness such 
 interest as no other writer but Mr. Henley could compass. It may 
 fairly be said that he has discovered a new art, the art of biographic 
 cameos. ... It is safe to say that henceforth the typical edition of 
 Byron can never be separated from these notes. In conclusion, if Byron 
 has waited long for a heaven-sent editor, he has him at last." 
 
 Academy. 
 
 " Mr. Henley, so far as elucidation and illustration are concerned, 
 is fully equipped." AtUen&um. 
 
 There will also be an Edition, limited to 150 sets for sale 
 in Great Britain, printed on Van Gelder's hand-made paper, 
 price Six Guineas net, subscriptions for which are now being 
 received. 
 
 STUDIES IN FRANKNESS 
 
 By CHARLES WHIBLEY 
 Crown 8vo, with Frontispiece, price js. 6d. 
 
 By the same Author, uniform with the above 
 
 A BOOK OF SCOUNDRELS 
 
 Crown 8vo, buckram, price 75. 6d,
 
 ^Autumn *Announ cements 1 1 
 
 A New and Enlarged Edition 
 
 THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING 
 ENEMIES 
 
 As pleasingly exemplified in many instances, wherein the serious ones of this 
 earth, carefully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions and 
 unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right. 
 
 By JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER 
 
 The continued demand for this unique work has enabled the 
 publisher to induce Mr. Whistler to consent to the issue of another 
 edition, which will be further enriched by the addition of much new 
 material. 
 
 A few copies of the Large Paper issue of the first edition are on sale, 
 price 2 23. net. 
 
 ZTbe Drama 
 
 i8mo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each, or paper, is. 6d. 
 
 ADMIRAL GUINEA MACAIRE 
 
 By W. E. HENLEY and R. L. STEVENSON 
 
 Previously Published. 
 Deacon Brodie | Beau Austin 
 
 i6mo, paper covers, is. 6d. ; or cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE 
 BUTTERFLY 
 
 By ARTHUR W. PINERO 
 
 Previously Published 
 
 The Times 
 
 The Profligate 
 
 The Cabinet Minister 
 
 The Hobby Horse 
 
 Lady Bountiful 
 
 The Magistrate 
 
 The Notorious Mrs. Ebb- 
 
 The Benefit of the Doubt 
 
 Dandy Dick 
 
 Sweet Lavender 
 
 The Schoolmistress 
 
 The Weaker Sex 
 
 The Amazons 
 
 The Second Mrs. Tanqueray 
 
 smith 
 
 The above 14 Volumes are now uniformly bound in Leather, in case, 
 price on application. 
 
 THE WEAVERS LONELY LIVES 
 
 By GERHART HAUPTMANN 
 
 Previously Published price 55. 
 Hannele; A Dream Poem. Translated by WILLIAM ARCHER,
 
 12 ^Mr. William Heinemanris 
 IRcw fiction 
 
 In One Volume at 6s. 
 
 ST. IVES 
 
 Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England 
 
 By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 By the same Author, price 6s. 
 
 The Ebb-Tide 
 
 THE BETH BOOK 
 
 By SARAH GRAND 
 
 By the same Author, price 6s. each 
 
 The Heavenly Twins | Ideala | Our Manifold Nature 
 
 MARIETTA'S MARRIAGE 
 
 By W. E. NORRIS 
 By the same Author, price 6s. each 
 
 The Dancer in Yellow | A Victim of Good Luck 
 
 The Countess Radna 
 
 WHAT MAISIE KNEW 
 
 By HENRY JAMES 
 By the same Author, price 6s. each 
 
 The Spoils of Poynton I The Other House 
 
 Embarrassments | Terminations 
 
 THE WAR OF THE WORLDS 
 
 By H. G. WELLS 
 
 By the same Author 
 
 The Island of Dr. Moreau. 6s. 
 The Time Machine. Paper, is. 6d. ; cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 GOD'S FOUNDLING 
 
 By A. J. DAWSON 
 
 THE LONDONERS 
 
 By ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 By the same Author, 6s. each 
 
 An Imaginative Man The Folly of Eustace Flames 
 
 Also in The Pioneer Series, faper 2S 6d. net; cloth 35. net. 
 The Green Carnation
 
 ^Autumn ^Announcements 13 
 Iflew fiction 
 
 In One Volume, at 6s. 
 
 NEW VOLUME 
 
 By STEPHEN CRANE 
 
 By the same Author 
 
 The Red Badge of Courage 
 
 (Pioneer Series, paper as. 6d. net; 
 cloth 35. net.) 
 
 Maggie. Price as 
 
 The Little Regiment 
 
 (Pioneer Series, paper as. 6d. net; 
 
 cloth 35. net. ) 
 The Black Riders. Price 35. net 
 
 The Third Violet. Price 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC 
 
 By the same A uthor 
 
 Illumination. Price 6s. 
 
 In the Valley. Price 35. 6d. 
 
 The Copperhead. Price 35. 6d. 
 
 The Return of the O'Mahony 
 
 Price 35. 6d. 
 The New Exodus. Price i6s. 
 
 The Man of Straw 
 
 Price 6s. 
 
 A Street in Suburbia 
 
 (Pioneer Series, paper as. 6d. net ; 
 
 cloth 35. net.) 
 
 THE GADFLY 
 
 By E. L. VOYNICH 
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE 
 
 By ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH 
 
 By the same Author 
 The Years that the Locust hath Eaten. 6s. 
 
 And in the Pioneer Series 
 Joanna Traill, Spinster. Cloth, 33. net, paper, as. 6d. net. 
 
 THE FREEDOM OF HENRY MEREDYTH 
 
 By M. HAMILTON 
 
 By the same Author 6s. each 
 McLeod of the Camerons | A Self-Denying Ordinance 
 
 And, in the Pioneer Series 
 Across an Ulster Bog. Cloth 35. net, paper, as. 6d. net.
 
 14 Mr. William Heinemanri s 
 IRew fftctton 
 
 In One Volume at 6s. 
 
 THE NIGGER OF "THE NARCISSUS" 
 
 By JOSEPH CONRAD 
 
 THE DRONES MUST DIE 
 
 By MAX NORDAU 
 
 By the same Author 6s, each 
 The Malady of the Century | A Comedy of Sentiment 
 
 THE FOURTH NAPOLEON 
 
 By CHARLES BENHAM 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE FIRST CONSUL 
 
 From the Swedish of M. MALLING, by ANNA MOLBOE 
 
 THE MASTER-KNOT 
 
 By J. A. STEUART 
 
 THE LAKE OF WINE 
 
 By B. E. J. CAPES 
 
 EZEKIEL'S SIN 
 
 By J. H. PEARCE 
 
 By the same Author 35. 6d. each 
 
 Eli's Daughter | Inconsequent Lives 
 
 A CHAMPION OF THE SEVENTIES 
 
 By EDITH A. BARNETT 
 In One Volume at 35. 6d. 
 
 MR5. JOHN FOSTER 
 
 By CHARLES GRANVILLE
 
 ^Autumn ^Announcements 15 
 Iflew fiction 
 
 In One Volume at 6s 
 NEW VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES 
 
 DREAMERS OF THE GHETTO 
 
 By I. ZANGWILL 
 
 By the same Author 
 
 Children of the Ghetto. 6s. 
 The Premier and the Painter. 
 6s. 
 
 The King of Schnorrers. 6s. 
 
 The Old Maid's Club. 
 
 Boards, as. , cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 IN THE PERMANENT WAY 
 
 By FLORA ANNIE STEEL 
 
 By the same Author, price 6s. each 
 
 On the Face of the Waters | From the Five Rivers 
 
 The Potter's Thumb 
 
 LAST STUDIES 
 
 By HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE 
 With an Introduction by HENRY JAMES, and a Portrait 
 
 By the same Author 
 Sentimental Studies. 6s. | Wreckage. 35. 6d. 
 
 a 1Revv IPoIume of tbe pioneer Series 
 
 Price 2s. 6d. net in paper, and 35. net in cloth 
 A MAN WITH A MAID. By Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY 
 
 1ftew Volumes of tbe International 2/fbrarg 
 
 In paper cover, 25. 6d. ; cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 THE OLD ADAM AND THE NEW EVE 
 
 Translated from the German of RUDOLF GOLM. 
 
 NIOBE. Translated from the Norwegian of JONAS LIE. 
 gbe "fflew Dolume of 5\?an guraenev's 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 35. net 
 
 THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 
 
 Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT. 
 
 tlvvo 1Rew IDolumes of JBjornstjerne JBjbrngon'g 1Kov>elg 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 35. net each Volume 
 CAPTAIN MANSANA AND MOTHER'S HANDS 
 ABSALOM'S HAIR AND A PAINFUL MEMORY
 
 AN ALPHABET 
 
 By WILLIAM NICHOLSON 
 
 In three Editions 
 
 1. The Popular Edition. Lithographed in Colours, on stout Cartridge 
 
 Paper. Price 55. 
 
 2. The Library Edition (Limited). Lithographed in Colours, on Dutch 
 
 Hand-made Paper, mounted on brown paper and bound in Cloth, 
 Gilt edges. Price 125. 6d. 
 
 3. The Edition de Luxe (Limited). Printed from the Original Wood- 
 
 blocks. Hand-coloured, and signed by the Artist. In Vellum 
 Portfolio. Price 12 125. 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATED PROSPECTUS ON APPLICATION 
 
 The art of the coloured woodcut, which was brought to its highest 
 perfection in Japan, has been comparatively neglected of recent years 
 in Europe, and its revival is due, probably, to the discovery of the 
 inadequacy of all mechanical processes for certain artistic effects. Mr. 
 Pennell has recently given enthusiastic testimony to the extraordinary 
 merit of the few examples of Mr. Nicholson's art which have hitherto 
 been published. 
 
 An ALMANAC of TWELVE 
 SPORTS for 1898 
 
 By WILLIAM NICHOLSON 
 
 WITH VERSES BY 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 Will be Published in November 1897 
 In three Editions 
 
 1. The Popular Edition. Lithographed in Colours, on stout Cartridge 
 
 Paper. Price 2S. 
 
 2. The Library Edition (Limited). Lithographed in Colours, on Japanese 
 
 Vellum, and bound in Cloth. Price 75. 6d. 
 
 3. The Edition de Luxe (Limited). Printed from the Original Wood- 
 
 blocks. Hand-coloured, and signed by the Artist. In Vellum 
 Portfolio. Price 5 55. 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATED PROSPECTUS ON APPLICATION 
 
 These pictures, done by one of the most distinguished younger artists 
 England can boast of, are English to the core, and will be delighted in, 
 not only for a momentary perusal but more so even if framed and daily 
 seen, as indeed their subject, and assuredly also their artistic merit, 
 warrants.
 
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