Scarcely had he uttered the words when he and his wife were startled by the sound of a terrible groan,—such a groan as is uttered only by one in mortal anguish or pain.
“Look yonder, my lord,” cried Juwalí; “there is a man lying beneath yon palm-tree. Perhaps he is wounded or dying; hark to his terrible groans!”
At the sound of her voice the poor wretch half raised himself from the ground, so that Tulsí Rám could behold his face. Distorted by pain as was that face, with what surprise and distress did Tulsí Rám recognize in his features those of his brave brother, Nihál Chand.
“Can it be! Yes, surely it is my own brother,” exclaimed Tulsí Rám, hastening towards the spot.
It was indeed poor Nihál Chand who, in a state of weakness and suffering, was lying under the tree. He feebly held out his arms, and was soon in the embrace of Tulsí Rám.
“What ails my brother?—he who is twice my brother—for have we not both passed through the waters of Baptism; are we not both Christians?” cried Tulsí Rám,—“though you were a Christian before me.” Christian is the new name given to those who have passed through the river.
“Oh, call me not Christian!” exclaimed the miserable Nihál Chand; “I am not worthy of the name.”
“What has happened; what have you done?” exclaimed Tulsí Rám with anxiety, for he saw that the anguish of his brother was great.
It was some little time before Nihál Chand was able to tell his sad story. His head drooped on his breast with shame. His brother wondered that one who had so bravely crossed the river of Baptism should now appear so weak and wretched. At last Tulsí Rám inquired, “Could my brother not find the jewels, the gift of our Father,—even the ruby, the pearl, and the diamond?”
“I found them; yes, I found them,” groaned Nihál Chand, “but I never wore them over my heart, and now I have lost them for ever—for ever!” Then the stream of his grief found vent in words, and to the listening Tulsí Rám and Juwalí Nihál Chand thus poured forth the tale of his sorrow and sin:—