"Madness! madness!" cried Ganesha, "the boy must die. Are you a fool, Meer Sahib, to risk such a chance?"
"He will never find out the difference between us and his parents," said I; "and I will not be interfered with."
"Fool!" said Ganesha, setting his teeth, "I spared a child once, and will never spare another; I have sworn it on the pickaxe."
"I care not for a thousand oaths," I cried; "the boy is mine, and you had better not oppose me if you wish to avoid a quarrel;" and I was going away.
He caught me by the arm. "Let me go," I exclaimed, and I felt for my dagger, "or by Alla! I will strike this steel into you."
"Boy," cried he, "you are mad; I fear you not; talk of daggers to others than Ganesha; he has seen too much of you to fear you. Give me the child, I say, his very cries will alarm the sepoys."
I felt for my dagger or sword, but I had left them in the tent; I tried if pity could move him. "Have you no compassion?" I said more gently: "Ganesha, have you no pity for a child? Can you bear to kill him?"
I was off my guard, and he saw his opportunity. Quicker than thought he had rudely snatched the child from my arms, and as he hurled him into the pit, he cried scornfully, "Pity! no, I know it not. Now go and cry, Meer Sahib, for the loss of your plaything."
I started forward, and leaned over the edge of the hole, which was being rapidly filled; the poor boy lay senseless and dead at the bottom—one shriek alone had escaped him as he was dashed with passionate force into it. I gazed for an instant to satisfy myself that he was dead, and some of the earth which was being thrown in hid him almost instantly from my view.
I turned to Ganesha in savage anger. "Dog!" cried I, "and son of a dog! you shall answer for this. Had I my sword now with me, I would cut you in two pieces."