"Why are these thongs? Why have they tied thee?" he asked, after a pause.
"To be put to the death for making a son of thee—what else?" said the man, sullenly. "Look! I bleed."
Messua said nothing, but it was at her wounds that Mowgli looked, and they heard him grit his teeth when he saw the blood.
"Whose work is this?" said he. "There is a price to pay."
"The work of all the village. I was too rich. I had too many cattle. Therefore she and I are witches, because we gave thee shelter."
"I do not understand. Let Messua tell the tale."
"I gave thee milk, Nathoo; dost thou remember?" Messua said timidly. "Because thou wast my son, whom the tiger took, and because I loved thee very dearly. They said that I was thy mother, the mother of a devil, and therefore worthy of death."
"And what is a devil?" said Mowgli. "Death I have seen."
The man looked up gloomily, but Messua laughed. "See!" she said to her husband, "I knew—I said that he was no sorcerer. He is my son—my son!"
"Son or sorcerer, what good will that do us?" the man answered. "We be as dead already."