The peon had for the twentieth time that day told Silindu's story with many embellishments, and complained bitterly of his silence and stupidity. The others sat round in the reeking atmosphere watching Silindu eat his rice by the dim light of two oil wicks.
'Will they hang him, aiya?' asked the boutique-keeper.
'Yes, he'll be hanged, sure enough,' said the peon. 'He confessed it himself, you see.'
'But they never really hang people, I am told. They send them away to a prison a long way off. They say they hang them just to frighten people.'
The other villagers murmured approval. The peon laughed.
'Of course they hang them. I've known people who were hanged. Why Balappu, who lived next door to me in Kamburupitiya, was hanged. He quarrelled with his brother in the street outside my house—it was about a share in their land—and he stabbed him dead. They hanged him. I took him along this same road to the prison three years ago. A good man he was: wanted to gamble all along the road.'
'But you don't know that he was hanged, aiya. No one saw it, no one ever sees it.'
'Nonsense,' said one of the traders. 'In Maha Nuwara they hang them. I knew a man there whose nephew was hanged, and afterwards they gave him the body to bury. The head hung over like this, and the mark of the rope was round the neck.'
The old beggar had listened to what was going on, squatting in his corner. He did not get up, but shuffled slowly forward into the circle, still in a squatting position. Silindu, who had before shown little interest in the conversation, looked up when the beggar intervened.
'Aiyo! what's that you say?' the old man asked. 'They are going to hang this man? Why's that?'