“Have you?” I assented sleepily.
“Yes, and he says there are no bullocks to be had until to-morrow; we must pass another night here.”
“Never!” I almost shrieked. “Never! Oh, Julia, I’ve had such a night. I’ve seen a murder!” And straightway I commenced, and told her of my awful experiences. “That khansamah murdered him. He is buried just outside the front step,” I concluded tearfully. “Sooner than stay here another night I’ll walk to Chanda.”
“Ghosts! murders! walk to Chanda!” she echoed scornfully. “Why, you silly girl, did I not sleep here in this very room, and sleep as sound as a top? It was all the pâté de foie gras. You know it never agrees with you.”
“I know nothing about pâté de foie gras,” I answered angrily; “but I know what I saw. Sooner than sleep another night in this room I’d die. I might as well—for such another night would kill me!”
Bath, breakfast, and Julia brought me round to a certain extent. I thought better of tearing off to Chanda alone and on foot, especially as we heard (per coolie) that our respective husbands would be with us the next morning—Christmas Day. We spent the day cooking, exploring the country, and writing for the English mail. As night fell, I became more and more nervous, and less amenable to Julia and Julia’s jokes. I would sleep in the verandah; either there, or in the compound. In the bungalow again—never. An old witch of a native woman, who was helping Abdul to cook, agreed to place her mat in the same locality as my mattress, and Julia Goodchild valiantly occupied the big room within, alone. In the middle of the night I and my protector were awoke by the most piercing, frightful shrieks. We lit a candle and ran into the bungalow, and found Julia lying on the floor in a dead faint. She did not come round for more than an hour, and when she opened her eyes she gazed about her with a shudder and displayed symptoms of going off again, so I instantly hunted up our flask and administered some raw brandy, and presently she found her tongue and attacked the old native woman quite viciously.
“Tell the truth about this place!” she said fiercely. “What is it that is here, in this room?”
“Devils,” was the prompt and laconic reply.
“Nonsense! Murder has been done here; tell the truth.”
“How I knowing?” she whined. “I only poor native woman.”