“No, no,” said the Indian, shaking his head, “this man is not of our race.”
“Explain.”
“Now I know it!”
“What do you know?”
“Listen!” said the Indian, in a solemn voice; “the number of victims that the children of Bowanee have sacrificed since the commencement of ages, is nothing compared to the immense heap of dead and dying, whom this terrible traveller leaves behind him in his murderous march.”
“He?” cried the negro and Faringhea.
“Yes, he!” repeated the Hindoo, with a convinced accent, that made its impression upon his companions. “Hear me and tremble!—When I met this traveller at the gates of Bombay, he came from Java, and was going towards the north, he said. The very next day, the town was a prey to the cholera, and we learned sometime after, that this plague had first broken out here, in Java.”
“That is true,” said the negro.
“Hear me still further!” resumed the other. “‘I am going towards the north, to a country of eternal snow,’ said the traveller to me. The cholera also went towards the north, passing through Muscat—Ispahan—Tauris—Tiflis—till it overwhelmed Siberia.”
“True,” said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful: