Walking and talking, cantering and galloping, the little party covered about twelve miles, and then in the golden morning turned their faces homewards, Mallender carrying with him the impression of wide yellowish plains with purple shadows, scattered rocks and jungle, one or two deserted temples, and a melancholy sense of space and desolation.
"This is the wild side," explained Tara, "at the other, they grow crops; heaps of cotton, ragi, cholum and oil seed, and send it down country. This evening we will introduce you to the great bazaar, a native town—and you will see what rich neighbours we have."
The only bazaar that Mallender had yet explored, was the Gorah Bazaar, in Madras; this, at Wellunga, was entirely different. In the first place, although it was teeming with human life, there was not a single European to be seen, nor even a Eurasian,—all were natives of the country. Truly here was "India for the Indians!" The stalls displayed no Western requirements; but grain, condiments, strange sweets, coloured cottons, and muslins, piles of silk of local manufacture in vermilion, orange, indigo, pink and green; also turbans, and tinselled caps of all colours. Here, were working jewellers with their little braziers; huka makers, weavers of spells, and public letter writers. The long narrow streets reeked with the intangible but familiar bazaar odour (a mixture of oil, grain, aromatic spices, and raw cotton). Crowds were chaffing, gossiping, or strolling along. Here and there, a tall, bold-looking woman covered with jewellery, and painted with khol, passed with a defiant glare; gaily caparisoned horses with jewelled girths, and head-bands—their manes and tails dyed rose colour, were led snorting by, disturbing the little sacred bulls, who were poking wet black noses into the open gram baskets.
"Those are Raka's stud!" explained Tom, "he likes to show them off. They are bitted up, poor brutes, till their necks are nearly broken. No wonder they are vicious! I hear he is getting two motor-cars from Madras."
"In that case," declared Tara, "his rival will send for four. Rakar and he are outward friends, and deadly enemies; both are grain merchants, money-lenders, and enormously rich. Here is Rakar now!" as an obviously important individual appeared, riding a prancing horse—held with evident difficulty by two men,—a gigantic white Khatiawari, his mane and tail a glowing pink, a band of gold and stones flashed above his furious eyes; his nostrils were scarlet, figuratively they breathed fire and slaughter, and the great animal appeared ready to break loose, and rend the whole bazaar!
Rakar, a keen-looking man of forty, salaamed with both hands as he passed by on his demonstrative charger.
"In old days, he would have had to get off his horse, when he met us," said Tara, as she scanned him with haughty eyes.
"I think he feels safer where he is; the horse would probably eat him," rejoined Mallender. He was secretly uncomfortable, and anxious to get Miss Beamish out of this highly-spiced, staring crowd,—but he had no occasion for misgiving and uneasiness. The General and all his house were held in high favour, and respect, in the native city.
"I think it is time for me to pay my evening visit to your father," he remarked at last.
"So it is," agreed Tom, "I saw the parents drive home a good while ago; all right, let us get a move on." For this manœuvre, Tom was always prepared.