The Terai was in consternation: Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department had been killed by his khansamah, Bijoo; the latter's wife, Chandni, had been horribly mutilated by her infuriated husband in accordance with an immemorial right claimed by the men of the Terai in such cases, and the government had offered a reward of one thousand rupees for the capture of the injured husband.

"Are we dogs?" said Ram Deen, indignantly, when the Thanadar had displayed a notice of the reward printed in Nagari that was to be posted throughout the Terai. "Are we dogs, brothers, that the sircar should tempt us with base money to betray men for exacting just retribution from those who wrong them?"

"We be men, coach-wan ji," said the bullock driver, valiantly; and whilst he spoke the great dog, Hasteen, who lay at Ram Deen's feet, pricked up his ears and growled as a shadow crept along the ground from the peepul tree in front of the village temple to a clump of tall grass some fifty paces from the Thanadar's fire.

"Peace!" exclaimed Ram Deen, venting his spleen on the dog with a blow from his shoe; "dost thou not know a jackal as yet?" Then to those assembled round the fire he went on, raising his voice: "Kali Mai wither the hand that betrayeth Bijoo, and fire consume his hut! There is contention even in my house, because the woman Chandni is kin to my wife, who believes in her innocence; but better such contention, and bitter silence for kindly speech, than that brothers should sell brothers, and so make light the honor of men in the Terai!"

"Nevertheless," said the Thanadar, "this notice must be posted wherever men pass or congregate throughout this Zemindaree."

"Nevertheless," retorted Ram Deen, bitterly, "without disrespect to thee, Thanadar Sahib, it shall be told throughout the Terai that Ram Deen spat on the notice of the sircar and tore it in shreds," and the driver of the mail-cart proceeded to make his words good.

Next evening, when the mail-cart drove up to the post-office, little Biroo plucked Ram Deen's sleeve as he dismounted. "Thou must come with me," he said, simply.

"Must, Little Parrot?"

"Ay, father mine. Tara wanteth thee; and there is pillau for thy evening meal."

Now Ram Deen had fed on Gunga Ram's stale cates the evening before for having expressed approval of the mutilation of Chandni, and this prospect of pillau, besides appealing shrewdly to his eager stomach, was, perhaps, a sign of capitulation on the part of the young wife he had but lately wedded.

As he approached his hut his nostrils were assailed with the odors of a great cooking.

"Thou seest, my father," said little Biroo, with the ineptitude of infancy, "thou seest what awaits thee inside."

When Ram Deen entered his abode a woman's voice came to him from the inner apartment, saying, "Feed, Big Elephant, stupid as thou art tall!"

As Ram Deen fell to, Biroo also dipped his hand in the dish, mouthful for mouthful; and when his little stomach was pleasantly distended, he paused and said, "Where didst thou sleep last night, my father?"

"'Twere better to eat pillau, little Blue Jay, than ask questions that may be answered only through the soles of thy feet," replied Ram Deen.

"O valiant Beater of Babes!" said the voice from the inner room, "were it not for Biroo, I would return to my grandfather's house; but thou wouldst starve and ill-use the little one."

"Nay, my Best Beloved," said Ram Deen, in a conciliatory tone, "thou art not even just to me. Listen——"

"I will not listen, O Brave to Women, till thou hast answered Biroo's question."

"My Star, an' you should tell it abroad that I did not sleep in mine own house last night, it would blacken my face in Kaladoongie."

"Thou wilt say, perchance, that I gossip at the village well. Go on, what next?"

"Nay, then, if thou must know it, I slept in Goor Dutt's bullock-cart."

"'Twas well, Lumba Deen (Long Legs). Ho, ho, ho! Thy case was that of a ladder balanced across a wall. Proceed."

"The grain bags I lay on, Heart of my Heart, were stony, and the night was full of noises."

"Yes. And thou wast warm?"

"Nay, Beloved, for there was not room for the drawing up of my knees between myself and Goor Dutt, so my feet were frozen, and Goor Dutt ceased not from snoring."

"'Twas well, Oppressor of Women and Children. And thy evening meal?"

"Light of the Terai, Gunga Ram's stale pooris were ill-bestowed on a pariah dog,—but the savor of thy pillau hath effaced the wrong done to my stomach last night."

"Ah! And now what thinkest thou of my kinswoman Chandni?"

"Tara, Light in Darkness, thou art dearer to me than life itself, and I would not lightly vex thee. What is done is done; why slay me with thy questions? I were not worthy of thee if I answered thee differently concerning the price to be demanded for the virtue of a woman; nay, do not cry, little one."

A sound of wailing came from the inner room, where two women were weeping in each other's arms. "Aho! aho!"

"Tara," exclaimed Ram Deen, starting to his feet, "who is the woman with thee? and why is she here?"

"It is I, Chandni," said a thick, muffled voice, "and thou doest me wrong, coach-wan ji. Listen!" Then the strange woman proceeded to tell Ram Deen of the slaying of Trenyon sahib, and of her own horrible mutilation.

When she had finished, Ram Deen said, "It was a brave stroke that Bijoo gave the sahib."

"It was well done, khodawund."

"And thou art not sorry for the killing of the sahib?"

"Doorga restore me and afflict me again, if I do not think it was a good killing!"

"They will hang Bijoo for it; a thousand rupees hath been offered for his taking, alive or dead."

"Aho! aho!" wailed the strange woman. "Men will be wicked for even ten rupees."

"But he robbed thee of thy beauty," remonstrated Ram Deen.

"'Twas right to do so, in his eyes," was the reply.

"And 'tis true thou wast in Trenyon sahib's tent for the helping of Bijoo?"

"As Nana Debi is my witness. And I know not all that happened, for the sahib gave me strong waters to drink that robbed me of my senses."

"Toba! toba!" exclaimed Ram Deen, walking towards the outer door. "Wife, see to it that thy relative is properly lodged this night."

"And to-morrow night?" queried Tara.

"To-morrow night I would eat of a kid seethed in milk and stuffed with pistachios by thy honorable kinswoman. Moreover, I will make provision for her ere the week is out."

"My lord is good as he is great," said Tara, as Ram Deen left the hut.

The next night, as they sat around the fire, Ram Deen waited till the shadow crept from the peepul tree to the clump of tall grass.

"Brothers," he began, speaking deliberately and in loud tones, "the woman we spake of last night is guiltless of wrong, as I now know. She is here and in my hut, and an honored guest." He paused and looked round the circle grimly.

"We be poor men, coach-wan ji," said the little driver, deprecatingly, "and thy honorable kinswoman is deserving, doubtless, of thy exalted consideration."

"She is deserving of the consideration due to a woman who was greatly wronged by the villain who was slain, and by the madman, his slayer. She was lured, brothers, into the sahib's tent by the sweeper's wife, Bhamaraya,—who is a lame she-wolf!—for the purpose of pleading for her man, Bijoo, who was accused of theft; and then she was robbed of her senses by the sahib's strong waters, and hath done no wrong; let no man in the Terai gainsay it!"

Ram Deen paused awhile to "drink tobacco," but nobody made comment on a matter in which he was so greatly interested.

"Bijoo's life is forfeit," he resumed; "and the rope that shall hang him is already made, for the sircar never fails to find whom it seeks. But Bijoo, alive or dead, is worth a thousand rupees to the man who shall take him. 'Twere pity that the money should go to some jackal of a man, for it belongs, of a right, to Chandni, whom he hath wrongfully mutilated; but he is a man, and will, doubtless, make the only reparation in his power, and yield himself up, for her sake, to some one who will bestow the blood money upon her."

The shadow rose from the tall grass and speedily disappeared in the darkness. Soon after, those who sat round the fire heard the dreadful lamenting of a strong man who walks between Remorse and Despair.

"Brothers," said Ram Deen, as he rose to go to his hut, "alive or dead, Bijoo will be here to-morrow night."

At the fire, next evening, no one spoke; they were waiting for the fulfilment of Ram Deen's prediction, and the bugle-call of the fateful man had just been heard in the direction of the Bore bridge.

"Bijoo hath come, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen, as he dismounted from the mail-cart.

He then proceeded, with the help of his hostler, to lift a heavy burden covered with a cloth from the back seat of the mail-cart. The limp hands trailing on the ground as they carried it showed their burden to be a corpse. They laid it in the firelight; and Ram Deen, drawing the covering from its face, disclosed the dreadful features of a man who had been hanged; part of the rope that had strangled him still encircled his throat.

"This was the way of it," began Ram Deen, after due identification had been made and the corpse had been carried to the thana; "this was the way of it: this evening, just before we began the descent that leads to the Bore bridge, a man sprang from the darkness in front of the horses and stayed the mail-cart below the great huldoo tree that stretches its arms across the road. The light of the lamps showed him to be Bijoo. So I sent the hostler forward to the bridge to await my coming, for Bijoo and I were fain to be alone for that which had to be said between us.

"When we were by ourselves I bade him mount the mail-cart and sit beside me. As he took his place, he said, 'Wah! coach-wan, dost thou not fear to be alone with a hunted man on a jungle road? I might slay thee now, for I am armed, and so remove the only man who can match me in the Terai.'

"'Nevertheless,' I replied, 'I will take thee to-night to Kaladoongie with my naked hands, if need be.'

"'We will speak of that hereafter,' said Bijoo; 'but now tell me of her.'

"'She is as you made her,—nakti and poor and a widow; for thou art but a dead man, Bijoo.'

"'And you spake the truth, last night, when you said she went to the sahib's tent to plead for me?'

"Taking one of the lamps, I held it to my face, saying, 'Draw now thy khookri, Bijoo, and slay me if thou thinkest I have lied.'

"''Tis well,' he replied, sheathing his weapon. 'And what will become of Chandni?'

"'She shall dwell honorably with her kinswoman in my hut, and respected of all men as long as I live; but the road is not safe, Bijoo, and bad men and jungle fever and wild beasts have slain better men than I; and, bethink thee, by yielding thyself my prisoner thou canst bestow one thousand rupees on Chandni, and so set her beyond the reach of want and scoffers till her end come.'

"He mused awhile, and then replied quietly, 'I will go with thee. Proceed. I know thou wilt bestow upon her the reward offered by the sircar.'

"'But they will hang thee, Bijoo.'

"'Of a surety. Proceed.'

"''Tis a shameful death, for the hangman is a sweeper,—some brother to Bhamaraya, perhaps.'

"'Nevertheless, proceed; but promise me that thou wilt trap the lame witch in some pit of hell, Ram Deen.'

"'Fret not thyself on that score, Bijoo; I have already given the matter thought. But why should the sircar hang thee? They—would—not—hang—a dead man;' and I flicked a branch that overhung us with my whip.

"'Thou art right, Ram Deen,' he said, quietly; 'but, lo! I have not slept for many nights, and my thought is not clear.' He then stooped downward, groping in the bottom of the mail-cart, and drew forth one of the heel ropes of the horses.

"Throwing one end of the rope over the branch that was above us, he fastened it thereto with a running loop, and then encircled his neck with a noose at the other end.

"As he stood up on the seat, he asked, 'Thou wilt give me honorable burning, Ram Deen?' And I replied, 'I will be nearest of kin to thee in this matter.'

"'Tis well. Thou wilt not forget thy reckoning with Bhamaraya?'

"But ere I could make reply, the gray wolf that hunts beyond the bridge bayed, and the horses broke from me in their fear, so that I could not stay them till we reached the Naini Tal road."

"Yea, brothers," said the hostler, at whom Ram Deen looked for confirmation of this part of his story, "I had scarce time to leap to one side, as the mail-cart sped past me whilst I waited on the bridge."

More he would have said,—for he had never before enjoyed the privilege of speech at the Thanadar's fire, and the occasion was epochal,—but he saw in Ram Deen's face that which made him whine and say, "But I am a poor man, and know nothing, and my sight is dim by reason of sitting overmuch by grass fires,—only Ram Deen, Bahadoor, could not stay the horses, though he cursed their female relatives for many generations, and——"

"So, Thanadar ji," interrupted Ram Deen, "as soon as I could restrain the horses I turned them back, and, after picking up the hostler (who, because he is more silent, is wiser than most poor men who are ever talking of what they know not), I drove to the huldoo tree where hung Bijoo as dead as you saw him but now."

Then, after a pause, he said, "Brothers, let it be told in the Terai that Bijoo came back as befitted an honorable man."