Bandhu turned his head to see who was the reciter of the verses, and beheld a fair youth, simply dressed, but in pure white garments, and with a face most pleasant to look on, for kindness and love were written upon it.
"Who are you? Your countenance is new to me," said Bandhu to the stranger.
"My name is Prem Chand, and I am a messenger from the king," was the reply.
The words drew around the young stranger Bandhu's companions.
One of them exclaimed, "You a messenger from the king! Where are your credentials?"
"I have such credentials to show," replied Prem Chand, "as will infallibly prove me to be a messenger from the lord of a thousand realms." He took a roll from his bosom, but not one of his hearers could read.
"Wherefore come you?" asked Bandhu.
"I come on your account," was the reply; "if you be, as I suppose, Bandhu, he whom my sovereign saved from destruction, he for whose welfare the king has so tenderly cared."
"My name is Bandhu, and I know that there is a king," said he of the janeo, "but as for his saving or caring for me, of that I know nothing at all. I am an attendant of the great Farebwala, and what I require he provides."
An expression first of indignation, then of deep sadness, passed over the face of Prem Chand. He could not speak quite so freely as he would otherwise have done, because of Bandhu's companions, who continued to throng around, some from curiosity, some to find some theme for mocking.