‘Vallee, my child!’ he cried, stretching out his hands beseechingly, ‘do you not see me?’ But the girl walked on unconcernedly.
Just then a woman came out of a hut near by bound on the same errand as herself. ‘Well, child,’ she exclaimed, addressing Vallee, ‘what did the múdliya say to your father?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied; ‘he has not come back yet.’
This answer completely dispelled the hope that the púsári had clung to—that his daughter might yet recognise him. He knew now what a mighty spell was on him, and that he was invisible to mortal eyes, and had no substance or voice. Wringing his hands and wailing aloud, but inaudibly to all human ears, he followed the two women to the well, and listened with agony and despair in his heart to their chatter and laughter. Several times he shouted, as he thought loudly, to his daughter, in the hope of making her hear, and also attempted to seize her by the arm; but she neither heard his voice nor felt his touch. Before entering the house again, on her return from the well, Vallee looked for some moments in the direction of the path to Mánkúlam, in the hope or expectation, apparently, of seeing her father appear, little thinking how near he was to her. The púsári entered the hut with her and sat down in his accustomed corner, overwhelmed by his terrible misfortune.
Suddenly there was a noise in the village outside. Some one, in loud excited tones, was relating something which seemed to be of startling import, from the loud ejaculations of surprise that followed. Listening intently, the púsári heard a man say: ‘Yes, the múdliya has been murdered, and his money-box broken open and rifled!’
Vallee, too, had evidently caught the words, for, starting up, she rushed out, and was followed by her father. A number of villagers were standing under a tree listening to a man whom the púsári recognised as an inhabitant of Mánkúlam. He was talking rapidly and with much gesticulation. On catching sight of Vallee, he stopped short, and with a glance round, asked loudly and abruptly: ‘Where is your father, child?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the girl, noting with surprise the meaning looks which the villagers exchanged. ‘He went last night to Mánkúlam to see the múdliya, and has not yet come home.’
‘The múdliya has been murdered,’ said the man gravely; ‘and the púsári’s knife has been found, and it is covered with blood!’
Vallee instantly understood what the man implied. With widely opened eyes and parted lips, she stood transfixed to the spot. She knew too well her father’s uncontrollable temper, not to feel him capable of any deed, however atrocious, when his passions were roused. Yet she loved him fondly and sincerely, and when she realised the awful nature of the crime with which he was charged, she threw herself on the ground and abandoned herself to grief and despair, refusing the comfort offered her by the women standing round.
The villagers, meanwhile, plied the bringer of the news with questions. He related how the múdliya’s little grandson had been present at a stormy interview between his grandfather and the púsári, at which the latter had uttered many threats; how, after the púsári had left the house, he had returned when the múdliya was alone, and had murdered him, and then robbed him of all his money and jewels. This was proved by the finding of his knife covered with blood, and by his disappearance, he having clearly fled to escape the penalty of his crime. The púsári’s rage on hearing himself charged with such a dreadful deed was excessive. Boiling over with wrath, he turned about in the crowd, addressing one and then another with indignant denials and protests. But though he shouted and raved and gesticulated, no one saw or heard him; and at length, seeing how fruitless his efforts to make himself heard were, he quieted down and waited to see what would be done next.