“A few chatties thrown over him ought to do him good.”
“But he is a holy man, my lord. He would be ready to curse us, if we did so. He has not washed for years.”
“He looked it,” I said. “But why?”
“Who knows, my lord? Perhaps he had sworn an oath. He is one of the blessed.”
“Will he go on to-day?”
“No, my lord. He will stay till he is strong enough to go. It is a blessing on our camp for him to be here, and the tiger must have been possessed of the evil spirit to dare to attack a fakir.”
“Well, don’t let him come near me,” I said. “I believe that cleanliness is next to godliness, Salaman. You are strange people: if I, a Christian, drink out of one of your vessels, you would say it was defiled, and break it. But you go and handle that nasty, dirty old man, and say it is a blessing for him to come.”
“Yes, my lord; he is a fakir.”
“Very good,” I said; “but, I repeat, don’t let him come near me.”
“He will not, my lord. We could not have it. He might curse my lord, because he is an unbeliever.”