"Huzoor! so be it! the Noose shall find a victim. Yea, Shelter of the World, Bisra will strangle something. Sleep in peace!"
There was no sound in the room after that save the little contented sigh in which restlessness finds rest.
Outside, the shiver of the cicalas seemed to count the seconds, but inside the hours seemed to pass unnoticed as Bisra sate beside the cot, his hands listless, his eyes dreamy. There was nothing to wait for now, nothing to fear. That which had to come had come.
So with the first glint of light, a stealthy step glided in, and an anxious voice whispered--
"How is it with the child, Bisra?"
"It is well!" he whispered back, rising rather stiffly. "He hath slept since the darkest hour. He will sleep on."
The mother, peering carefully for a glimpse of the child's face, smiled at what she saw.
"He sleeps, indeed. Thou hast done well, Bisra!"
He made no answer. But ere he left the room, his night-watch being over, he paused to touch the foot-rail of the cot with both hands and so salaam, as those do who leave the presence.
Sonny was still sleeping when his father, entering his study with a lighter heart, found a stranger, as he thought, awaiting him there. It was a man, naked save for a waistcloth, lean, sinewy, lithe; the head was clean-shaven, save for the Brahminical tuft, and the face was disfigured by the weird caste marks of extreme fanaticism.