"At last all had gone their several ways, leaving Baji Lal and his wife, Bimjee and myself, alone beneath the pipul tree. A first look into each other's eyes showed that we were all of the same mind. In their excitement of the moment the unthinking throng had approved; but for us there was nothing but bitter disappointment.
"It was Baji Lal who first voiced his feelings.
"'Chunda Das,' he said slowly, 'Sheikh Ahmed has promised to recompense me for my losses; he has given a costly present to my wife. We want neither his gifts nor his promises. They are as dust to us. The little we did for him was not done for gold. Yet we took him into our home, and fought death for him, and won. He left a valuable treasure under our roof without consulting or trusting us. When this act of his brought disaster on our heads, it was no thought for Devaka or for me that brought him back in hot haste. It was the possible loss of the harp that occupied all his thoughts. When he came upon the scene, he saw me tied and ready for the word to die. On the roof he saw my wife with the flames already leaping to devour her. Yet not one finger did he put forth to save either her or me. He just rushed into the smoke-filled house, that he might secure the harp—an instrument of great price, let it be. But you, my dear friend, had ridden night and day to find the man whom our neighbours thought we had murdered. Our faithful friend Bimjee'—Baji Lal stretched out his hand to the barber—'defied fire and smoke to rescue a defenceless woman from an atrocious death. Neither of you had anything to gain by these deeds of bravery and self-sacrifice. You did them for pure love of us. What do we want with that selfish man's gifts? Chunda Das, give me the paper which binds him to his promise to restore my home, that I may tear it into fragments and scatter it to the winds. Devaka, my wife,'—and his voice fell to a tone of great gentleness—'hand the necklet to Chunda Das, that he may restore it to the giver.'
"Devaka, who, as I have said, had already removed the chain of gold from her neck, looked at it perhaps a little lingeringly, let it slip through her fingers caressingly, then with a sigh placed it in my hands and turned away. But her sigh, I knew, was less for the surrender of the gift than for the unworthiness that had prompted its bestowal.
"Her husband contemplated her compassionately. 'You have not many trinkets, little wife,' he said, 'but this one would not remind us so much of good deeds done as of base ingratitude. I have no home to take you to at present, but Bimjee wants us to stay with him until I can build you another.'
"He stretched forth his hand to Devaka, and, leading her away, departed. Bimjee, after a salute to me, followed his bidden guests at a little distance. For myself, I remained awhile to ponder all these happenings.
"To say that I was disappointed in Sheikh Ahmed would not adequately express my feelings. From the first I had been attracted to the man, by his handsome figure, distinguished bearing, and pleasant smile. During our intimacy of four days on the road I had admired the brilliancy of his conversation, and had taken great delight in his entertaining recitals of adventure in many far lands. From one like him I had certainly never expected this display of callous selfishness. But such is life. We have to keep ourselves prepared for many disillusionments. And, as I remarked at the outset of my narrative, an experience of this kind teaches that, if in judging our fellow men we are to be chary of condemnation, it behoves us also to be discreet in commendation."
And so ended the Bombay trader's story.
After an interval of silence, the voice of the Rajput chief spoke up: