The next day I heard that the old fakir had not gone. His wounds were bad, and he had taken up his abode about a hundred yards away, amongst the roots of a large tree.
“Have you doctored his scratches?” I asked.
“No, my lor—sahib,” said Salaman; “he will not have them bathed, and he has torn off all the bandages, and he made me guide his finger along them.”
“Dirty finger?”
“Yes, sahib, it is a very dirty finger. At least it would be if it was mine; but his fingers are holy. They cannot be unclean, and he says that the touch will heal the wounds.”
“I hope it will,” I said; “but, I say, look here, Salaman, have you washed your hands since you touched him?”
“Oh yes, sahib, many times,” he cried eagerly.
I laughed heartily for the first time for long enough, and Salaman looked puzzled, and then smiled.
“I know why, my—sahib laughs,” he said. “These things are a puzzle. I cannot make them out.”
“Never mind; only don’t let the old fakir come near me.”