“Begone!” screamed his wife. “Depart, devil, born with the evil eye, come to mock at the afflicted of the gods!”
“When he hath spoken, we will go our ways,” answered a solemn voice; “but otherwise, we remain until the end.”
Durga Pershad raised himself laboriously on his charpoy; his head was muffled up in a brown blanket, he was nearly blind, and cried aloud, in a shrill, piercing falsetto—
“Yea, here is the answer—the god’s answer”—and he thrust out a leprous arm—“I did it.”
“How? Hasten to speak, O vile one!”
“I long desired his life,” he panted. “He came with me to the river-bank of his own accord, for I had promised him a rare spectacle. My heart was hot within me—yea, as a red-hot horse-shoe. Even as he clamoured for my promise, I flung him to the alligators. It was over in a minute—but—I hear his scream now!”
Then Durga Pershad covered his face, and lo! as he turned to the wall, he died.
TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS.
CHAPTER I.
Gram had fallen to nine seers for the rupee, which affected the sahibs who kept horses and polo ponies; and rice was down to eight measures—this affected the villagers and ryots. The rains due at Christmas had failed. There was talk of a great scarcity and a sore famine in the land, especially among the sleek, crafty bunnias, who bought up every ounce of grain in the district when it was cheap, and at the first whisper of failing crops—often a rumour started by themselves—locked it up relentlessly, in hopes of starvation prices, refusing to sell save at exorbitant rates.