I began to be impatient and said, “Out with it then, what is it?”
“Sahib, you know I love you, and think much of your izzat, honor. I would let you beat me, or you might put your feet upon me,” and he threw himself upon the ground toward me. I began to be alarmed, thinking there must be something serious, or he would not act in that way, for he was a very reliable, sensible man. I told him to get up, and urged him to tell me what he meant. He said, “I would rather die than say it, but I tell you for the sake of your honor, I must tell you.” ‘Well, then tell it,’ I urged.
Said he, “If the sahib will not kill me with the knife in his hand.”
I hurled the knife away, and said, “There goes the knife,” and then I folded my arms and stood waiting. He went on:
“Now, if the Sahib will not call me a liar, or the son of a dog, or curse me.”
I held up my right hand and said: “Ram Kishn! I will eat an oath before God, that I will not touch you with my hands or feet, neither will I harm you with my words, if you tell me what you mean.”
After a few moments, he said, “Sahib, you know the young Sahib who comes here often, and sings with the Mem Sahib, who goes out with her in the phaeton when you are absent?” I nodded my head in reply. “Well, when you are gone to your villages—how can I tell it, Sahib? he comes late at night when the lights are all out, and the Mem Sahib lets him in, and he does not go away till early next morning.”
I staggered and fell. He rushed to me moaning, “Sahib, forgive me, what have I done? I have killed you!” Then he helped me to a seat in the arbor.
It seemed my heart had stopped, and I was choking. He stood with the palms of his hands together, bending towards me, and the tears running down his cheeks.
For some time we were silent. I could not think, it seemed that I had fallen from some house or tree and was insensible. After awhile I said. “Ram Kishn, I don’t doubt that you believe what you say, but there must be some mistake. It is impossible, impossible.”