"I heard a sound of musketry near it."
"One discharge?"
"Yes."
"Oh—you remember that odd-looking fellow who appeared at the band-stand and cut such strange capers when the musicians of the 37th were playing an air from Rossini. Well, he proved to be a Thug, and all the implements of Thugee—the holy pick-axe, the handkerchief and cord for strangulation, were found upon him."
"Not in his clothes," said Denzil, "for he had none, so the orderlies switched him away from the vicinity of the Trecarrels' carriage."
"I saw those wags of girls in fits of laughter at him. No, the implements were not found in his clothes, certainly, but in his hair, which hung below his waist, plaited like ropes. Many murders—he had strangled Christians and Hindoos with perfect impartiality—were fully proved against him by the Provost-Marshal, so he was shot, off-hand, to save all further trouble."
"So those Thugs are a sect?" said Denzil.
"Yes; and a vast community of secret assassins, too. As for sects, you will find as many here as in England, but calling themselves by different names, Mahommedans, Soonies, Ismaelites, Parsees, Hindoos, Bheels, Khonds, and worshippers of Mumbo Jumbo, et cetera, all hating each other most cordially; and by Jove, amid them, we may say as the knight of La Mancha said to his squire, 'Here, brother Sancho, we can put our hands up to the elbows in what are called adventures.'"
"Who are to be at the Trecarrels' to-morrow?" asked Waller, manipulating a fresh cigar.
"Ask Devereaux," replied Polwhele, sending some spiral circles towards him, and laughing the while.