“Yes, I remember all those things. That wooden pistol has killed lots of Indians.”
The second drawer held among other things a camel’s-hair shawl, a bed-cover, a pair of woman’s slippers, a huge shell-comb elaborately carved, some black mits, and a package of letters; almost everything except a book. The third drawer and the fourth were equally disappointing. The lowest drawer was deeper and heavier, and it stuck. Amos sprang to help her, and together they pulled it open, then sat down upon the floor in front of it. The character of its contents was much like the others, but Molly delved thoroughly among its treasures and she received her reward. As her hand was exploring a farther corner she looked up into his face with a look of excitement.
“Here is a book! It must be the one!” and a little volume was drawn forth.
“‘The Heroes of India!’ aren’t we in luck!”
It was a handsome little book, with a blue morocco cover and gilt edges, published in Calcutta. Turning over the leaves with eager fingers she came to a bookmark opposite a portrait, a steel engraving, showing the head and shoulders of a bejewelled prince.
“Why, it might be you! It is exactly like you! Look!” and she held it before him.
“So it is, but perhaps they all are. Let’s hear about him if you are sure he is our man.”
“Oh, I am sure of it! He is the image of you and the others are not;” and she began to read.
“He is the image of you”