"Can this be possible?"
"Will you write that, sahib?"
The old gentleman picked up his pen in a mechanical way, but it was some time before he could recover from the daze in which he was thrown by the astounding declaration.
At last the words were written, and when the excitement grew less the story was completed.
Between Wana Affghar and Luchman the game was a genuine one of "diamond cut diamond;" and though the reader of this narrative may have concluded that the Ghoojur chieftain overmatched the Hindoo, yet I am sure he will now revise that verdict and decide the other way.
During one of the visits of Luchman to Calcutta, he secured the services of a native lapidary, who, by some alchemy unknown out of his country, made a perfect imitation of the Star of India, which Luchman took with him, impelled by a vague idea that it might serve him in some such contingency as arose.
Inserting his fingers again in his turban, he brought forth a piece of soft brown paper, as he had done before, and partly turning so as to face Marian Hildreth, tossed the gem into her lap.
"I have saved it for you," said he, "but did not give it before, because I was afraid you could not keep it while the war was raging about you. Now it is safe: will you take it?"
"But why do you give it to me, Luchman?"
The native was silent a moment, as if struggling to control his emotion. Then in a low, touching voice, he said: