"Fast her tears fell—faster, faster,
As the days pass slowly by."
"Hold!" he exclaimed, waving his hand; "who are ye? and whence come ye?"
"From Tooljapoor, O Pundit," said the hunchback humbly.
"Who taught you that ballad?"
"No one taught it me. I heard it, and have remembered it. They say one Vyas Shastree composed it. Maybe you have heard of him, sir. He had a daughter named Tara. She was a Moorlee. I have heard they are all dead now."
"Ye belong to Tooljapoor?"
"No, Maharaj; I am from near Allund—a long way from this; but the vow I made is for" ("The gods forgive me if I tell another lie!" he said inwardly)—"for a—child—O kind sir; if the Mother will send me one. Your worship speaks Canarese?"
"Yes," said the Shastree, replying in that language; "who art thou?"
"Do they understand it?" asked the hunchback.
"No," he replied, "none but my wife, and she only a little. Why dost thou ask?"