[CHAPTER XVII.]
My father counted out the money and handed it over to the Dullal; his countenance brightened as he viewed it, and he made numberless salams and protestations of thanks. "Now you must write a receipt for the money," said my father.
"Surely," replied the fellow, taking a pen out of his turban, "if my lord will give me paper and ink."
"Here they are," said I; "write."
He did so, gave me the paper, and tied the money up in a corner of his dhotee, which he tucked into his waistband. "Have I permission to depart?" he asked; "my lord knows the poor Dullal, and that he has behaved honestly in this transaction. Whenever my lord returns to Hyderabad, he can always hear of Mohun Das, if he inquires at the Char Minar, and he will always be ready to exert himself in his patron's service."
"Stay," said I; "I have somewhat to say to thee;" and I related to my father the whole of the conversation I have just described.
"Is it so?" said he to the miserable being before him; "is it so? speak, wretch! let me hear the truth from thy own lips; wouldst thou have robbed me?"
But the creature he addressed was mute; he stood paralysed by fear and conscious guilt, his eyes starting from his head, his mouth open, and his blanched lips drawn tightly across his teeth. "Thou hast deserved it," continued my father; "I read in that vile face of thine deeds of robbery, of murder, of knavery and villany of every kind; thou must die!"
"Ah, no, no! Die?—my lord is pleased to be facetious; what has his poor slave done?" and he grinned a ghastly smile.