"What!" he asked, "so you know not of it, Meer Sahib? Surely Ismail must have told you all? And yet," continued he, after a pause, "he would not have done it—he dared not."
"What can you mean," cried I, "by saying he dared not? Was I his son, or did he say truly when he declared I was not?"
"He spoke the truth, Meer Sahib. I know your origin, and it is just possible there may be one or two others who do also, and who are still living: one of these is Ganesha."
"Ganesha!" I exclaimed; "by Alla! my soul has ever told me that he knew something of me. I have striven in vain to bring any scene in which he was concerned with me to my recollection, and always failed. By your soul! tell me who and what I was."
"'Tis a long tale, Ameer Ali," said the old man, "but I will endeavour to remember all I can of it; it is one too which, were you not what you are, would horrify you."
"My parents were murdered then?" said I, my heart sinking within me. "I have sometimes thought so, but my conjectures were vague and unsatisfactory."
"You have guessed truly, Meer Sahib. But listen, my memory is still fresh, and you shall know all.
"Ismail, your father, as he called himself to you, became a Thug under Hoosein Jemadar, whom no doubt you remember. I well recollect the day he joined us, at a village not very far from Delhi; I was then a youth, and belonged to the band of which Hoosein was one of the best Bhuttotes."
"I know Ismail's history," said I; "he related it to me."
"Then I need not repeat it," he continued. "In time Ismail, by his bravery and wisdom, rose far above Hoosein, and became the Jemadar of a band of thirty Thugs. It is of this time I would speak. We were one day at a village called Ekléra, in Malwa, encamped outside the place, in a grove of trees near a well. We had been unlucky for some time before, as it was the season of the rains, when but few travellers are abroad, and we were eagerly looking for bunij.