“Yea, but we can!” cried a shrill voice. There was a sudden movement in the crowd, and a tall female figure broke out of the throng, and pushed her way into the open space and the full light of the fire. She wore the usual dark red petticoat, short-sleeved jacket, and blue cloth or veil over her head. This she suddenly tossed aside, and, as she stood revealed before us, her hair was dishevelled, her black eyes blazed with excitement; but she was magnificently handsome. No flat-faced Gond this, but a Marathi of six-and-twenty years of age—supremely beautiful.
“Protectors of the poor,” she cried, flinging out her two modelled arms, jingling with copper bangles, “here am I. I am willing, and thou shalt give me. The shaitan has slain my man and my son. When the elephant is gone, why keep the goad? This devil of tigers has eaten more than one hundred of our people, and I gladly offer my life in exchange for his. Cattle! no”—with scorn. “He seeks not our flocks; he seeks us! Have we not learned that, above all, he prefers women folk and young? Therefore, behold I give myself”—looking round with a dramatic gesture of her hand—“to save all these.”
“It is Sassi,” muttered the Malgoozar, “the widow of Gitan. Since seven days her mind hath departed. She is mad.”
“Nay, my father, but I am wise! Truly, it is the sahib’s shikari who is foolish, and of but little wit. He knows not the ground. There is the stream close to the forest and the crops. The sahibs shall sit above in the old bher tree, with their guns. They shall tie me up below. Lo, I will sing, yea, loudly, and perchance the tiger will come. He is now seven days without food from our village. Surely he must be an-hungered. I will sing, and bring him to the great lords’ feet—even to his death and mine. Then will my folk be avenged, and my name remembered—Sassi the Marathi, who gave her life for her people!”
She paused, and every eye was fixed upon her as she stood amidst a breathless silence, awaiting our answer, as immovable as a statue.
“Truly, what talk is so foolish as the talk of a woman?” began the Malgoozar, fretfully. “Small mouth, big speech——”
“Nay, my father,” interrupted Nuddoo, eagerly, “but she speaks words of wisdom, and ’tis I that am the fool. The lord sahib returns in two days’ time—and we have done naught.”
As he spoke, his best eye was fixed on Sassi with an expression of ravenous greed not to be described. Apparently he saw the five hundred rupees now within a measurable distance!
“She can lure him, she shall stand on the stack of Bhoosa that pertains to Ruckoo, the chowkidar; she will sing—the nights are still. The Bagh will hear, he will come, and, ere he can approach, the sahibs will shoot him. After all”—with a contemptuous shrug—“it is but a mad woman and a widow.”
“Nuddoo,” shouted Algy, “if I ever hear you air those sentiments again, I’ll shoot you. We don’t want that sort of bait; and, if we did, I would sooner tie you up, than a woman and a widow.”