"Thy voice is familiar to mine ears," said the old man, "yet I remember not thy features. Who art thou?"
"Mine is a name which may hardly be pronounced in Jhalone," I replied; "but we are alone. Have you forgotten Ameer Ali?"
"Punah!" exclaimed the Moola, sidling away from me to the edge of his carpet; "Punah i Khoda! do I behold that bad and reckless man?"
"Bad I may be, Moola," said I quietly; "and reckless I certainly am; yet I wish thee no harm. You were kind to one I loved—you have my child in your house—it is of them I would speak, not of myself. Tell me, for the sake of Alla, whether my child is well—tell me whether she lives, and I will bless you." I gasped for breath while he replied, lest I should perchance have to hear of further misfortune.
"This is madness, Ameer Ali," said he; "know you not that your father's fate awaits you if you are discovered here?"
"I know, I know all," said I; "and I have braved everything. I have sought you despite of danger—for my heart clove to my child, and I would fain hear of her. Ah, Moola, think not of what I was, and be merciful to me."
"Unhappy man!" he cried; "thy crimes brought with them their own reward; but I will not speak of the past. Know then that thy daughter is well; but she grieves still for thee and for her mother, whom Alla in mercy removed from her sufferings before she knew her degradation."
"Shookr Khoda!" I exclaimed: "ah, Alla, thou art merciful even to me. And my child is well, and remembers me?"
"She does, Meer Sahib; she often speaks of you, but we have told her you are dead, and she no longer thinks of you as one whom she may ever meet again."