"Allah alone can search the hearts of men," said the hakeem, slowly and reflectively repeating the words with which the astrologer had closed his tale. He was a man of venerable appearance, with flowing, white beard that descended to his waist. And yet, although his face was furrowed with the lines of old age, his eyes were wonderfully youthful in their contemplative calm.

"No truer words have been spoken to-night," he continued. "Yet must we further reflect that, while a man cannot sit in judgment upon his fellows, he can assuredly judge himself, which goes to show that within the breast of every man there dwells the very spirit of God, the power to search his own heart, whether in condemnation or for approval. Life is a problem, and it requires a full lifetime to solve it. Only as we grow older do we come to know our own souls—our strength and our weakness, the measure of our true nobility of character and likewise the measure of our inherent meanness, the temptations not merely from without but from within that assail us, our power to conquer these or our miserable yielding at times, with no one, perhaps, even guessing at our degradation except the divine spark of conscience that inexorably turns a searching ray on every thought and on every motive for action."

"So you would argue that man is God?" queried the Rajput.

"Not so, but that the soul of man is of the essence of God, the proof of which is this very power of searching out our own hearts and sitting in judgment on our own failings: for the judgment seat belongs to Allah alone."

"A subtle philosophy which I do not presume fully to understand," interposed the merchant from Bombay.

During the night's entertainment he had shown himself to be a man of few words, yet an attentive listener. He was of middle age, of a mild dignity of mien, and of robust physique, as befitted one accustomed to long journeys through regions infested with robbers or with beasts of prey.

"But in my practical experience of life," he proceeded, "I have come to realize that, while I may know myself, no other man can I know. Therefore, if it be right to be sparing of condemnation for another, it is also wise to be chary of undue commendation. The world too often acclaims a deed as noble when the real motive prompting it is utterly ignoble."

"A true philosopher, despite your bales of merchandise," murmured the hakeem, with a smiling nod of approval for the sentiments expressed.

"Well, I suppose that every one who travels becomes a philosopher, more or less," assented the trader. "Change of scene and of companionship stimulates new ideas. Now will I relate an actual experience which aptly illustrates that, in our dealings with those around us, we never really penetrate their minds. Man knows himself; he knows no one else—friend or intimate, the child of his heart or the very wife of his bosom."

"It is more easy to discover a white crow," muttered the fakir, "than know what a woman has in her heart."

The merchant paid no heed to the interruption. He went on:

"Each of us is an inscrutable mystery to the other. Each soul is veiled to every other soul, and is naked to itself alone."

"O prince of philosophers in pedlar's disguise!" murmured the hakeem.

"If our souls sat naked for the common gaze," commented the Rajput, "if we could all read each other's hearts, then indeed would life be an abomination—an utter misery, with the twin devils of shame and disgust seated at our elbows all the time."

"Most true," concurred the trader. "For too much knowledge of another's inmost thoughts brings only disillusionment and regret, as my tale will show. The story takes us among humble people, but human nature is the same everywhere—the same in the hut of the rayat as in the palace of the rajah.

"Once in every two years it is my custom to travel from Bombay to Benares, and invariably I break the journey at a certain village some six or seven days from my final destination. Here dwells an old friend and caste brother, formerly, like myself, a merchant in the Bombay bazaar where silken stuffs are sold, but retired now to his own country with modest savings sufficient for the rest of his days. Baji Lal, as he is named, is all the closer to me because his wife Devaka is a sister of my own wife, and the two are always eager to have news of each other's welfare.

"At the house of this friend I rest for a day or two, enjoying his companionship, the reminiscences of old times, and the gossip of the hour. So, on my long and fatiguing journeyings, I have always looked forward to these meetings with pleasurable anticipation and remembered them with tranquil satisfaction.

"But on the occasion of one of my periodical visits judge of my surprise when I was received in silence and with apathy that made no pretence at disguise. Devaka did not rise from her cushions on the floor to bid me welcome, and her husband, similarly irresponsive, returned my customary cordial greeting with nothing better than a look of wearied dejection.

"Disturbed, I made inquiry:

"'Baji Lal, my friend, what is the matter? Are you ailing?'

"But he only shook his head, and turned away.

"To Devaka I then appealed.

"'What is the meaning of this?' I asked. 'Sadness and silence where everything used to be joy.'

"She drew aside the sari that had concealed her face, and I was shocked at its grief-stricken aspect. Her trembling lips parted to answer me, but her husband checked her with a sharp word, such as I had never heard him use to her before. Her eyes filled with tears, and I could see the big drops rolling down her cheeks as she silently replaced the sari over her head, and, bending low, rocked herself to and fro.

"For the moment I imagined that I had intruded on some scene of domestic unhappiness which would be dissipated in an hour. So, hiding my embarrassment, I turned to the door, intimating that I would seek some other lodging for the night, and return on the morrow, when I hoped my friends would be in fitter mood to receive me.

"At last Baji Lal spoke, raising his face but still remaining seated on the divan we were wont in former times to share.

"'Go thy way, Chunda Das,' he said. 'The sword of fate has descended upon this house. Come not again to a place accursed.'

"Then did I realize that the trouble was serious.

"'But, my friend and brother,' I protested, 'I cannot depart and leave you thus. Let me at least understand what calamity has befallen you, so that I may help toward its repair.'

"'Nothing can be done, so nothing need be said,' he answered, in a tone and with a look of dignified resignation to the will of God. 'If you must have the story of our misfortune, you have only to ask the first of our neighbours you encounter.'

"And he, too, covered his face with his garment, leaving me no choice but to withdraw without further attempt at this manifestly inopportune time to probe the mystery.

"If I was to be of service to my friends, however, knowledge of what had befallen was the first essential. So I took the road that would lead me to the great pipul tree in the village square, close to the tank and to the temple, where all day long there was coming and going, and where therefore I would be most likely to glean the information I desired. By a happy chance I found reclining under the pipul tree the village barber, a loquacious fellow, who counted it as part of his business to know the last detail about other people's affairs.

"After greetings, and a few remarks about the weather and the crops and the season's epidemics, I carefully broached the real purpose of my interview, for a prudent man will never divulge his thoughts to another until he knows that other's thoughts.

"'I have just come from the house of Baji Lal,' I said, in a seemingly casual way.

"The barber's face instantly lost the smile it had worn.

"'How did you find him?' he asked.

"'Strangely altered,' I replied.

"'And so does every one,' he concurred.

"'Why so?' I ventured.

"The barber looked at me squarely, and then said:

"'You and he were very good friends, Chunda Das.'

"'Yes, and are still, so far as I am concerned,' I answered.

"'I thought so. Well, I am his friend likewise. Many years I have known him and his wife, Devaka. Both are good, kind people, always willing to help their neighbours, and ready to give their last bowl of rice to a vagrant beggar. Perhaps you can assist me to clear away the shadows that have fallen around them and obscured the sunshine of their home. Let me tell you the story. A few months ago a stranger came to this village. He was on his way to Fathpur-Sikri, to witness the glories of the court of the mighty Akbar. But on the road he had fallen ill, and, arriving here, was too sick to proceed. I am ashamed to say that none of us were willing to take him in, for sickness goes from one person to another. So we have to be careful, especially in my calling, where I come into such close contact with so many.

"'There was quite a little crowd just here by the tank, discussing the situation, the sick man in their midst resting upon the ground, when Baji Lal and his wife, who happened to be passing, came forward to see what the commotion was all about. They listened to the story, and then told the stranger he might come with them. He gratefully accepted, and, after whispering some instructions to a servant by whom he was accompanied, he motioned to Baji Lal to lead the way. The little group moved off, the servant in the rear, leading the horses, which included a pack animal laden with the traveller's bedding, cooking pots, and other belongings.

"'After unloading the baggage at Baji Lal's home, the servant, as we learned later in the day, had, in obedience to orders, straightway mounted his horse, and ridden away. He had exchanged no words with any of us.

"'For weeks Baji Lal and his wife attended to the wants of the invalid, until at last he was able to move about the village, and talk with one and another. From the first we had recognized the stranger as a man of distinction. Now we learned his name—Sheikh Ahmed, a Moslem, I need not say. But in these days of Akbar all religious feuds are to be set aside, this by direct command of the Emperor himself—blessed be his name and exalted his glory! So this follower of the prophet was made quite welcome among us, a community of Hindus.

"'Day by day the Sheikh regained his strength, and often would he come of an evening when the village folk gathered under this pipul tree, listening to the chit-chat going on, sometimes joining in the conversation. Soon he began to tell us stories of far lands, for he had travelled to many distant places, even outside of Hindustan, so we grew to like him, and to watch each evening for his coming.

"'But all of a sudden he disappeared from our midst. The day before he had been with us, sitting almost on the very spot where you are seated now. He did not say he was going away, nor even hint that he intended doing so. When Baji Lal was questioned, he said that the servant had returned during the night with saddle and pack horses, and that, after conferring with Sheikh Ahmed, had gathered together his master's belongings, and announced their immediate departure. Baji Lal had tried to persuade his guest to wait until daylight, but this advice was unheeded. The Sheikh promised, however, that he would come again to the village when he passed that way on his homeward journey.

"'At this time Baji Lal's story seemed a perfectly natural one, and the people only regretted that they had not had the opportunity of bidding the Sheikh farewell. Still the prospect of soon seeing him again softened this regretful feeling.

"'And now began the change in our friends. Baji Lal ceased to come to our village meetings, and Devaka shunned every woman, even her most intimate friends. For a while this strange behaviour did not attract special attention, although noted and commented on afterwards. For just a few days after Sheikh Ahmed had gone away the monsoon had burst, and the stormy weather would account for Baji Lal and his wife remaining much at home. But as time wore on, and their furtive ways grew more and more pronounced, people began to talk, and from talking they took to watching and spying. For, believe me, there is nothing so all-absorbing as for once respected and well-thought-of people to be under a cloud. We allow our imaginations to run riot, and our tongues do not rust for want of wagging.

"'Thus suspicion gradually filled the air, and it was whispered that Baji Lal and Devaka had murdered their guest for his money, and had merely invented the story of his midnight departure to hide their crime. Children who once used to run to them shrank back, or were called away by their parents.

"'But, most extraordinary thing of all, and one that brought convincing confirmation to what had at first been mere suspicion, at night there could be heard heartbreaking cries and sobs coming from the house of Baji Lal. The voice was not his, nor that of his wife; it was, in all truth, the wail of a spirit, plaintive at times, then angry as if shrieking aloud for vengeance. For I myself have heard these sounds with mine own ears; twice in the darkness of the night I mustered courage to steal forth as far as the hedge that hides the house from the roadway, and, although the monsoon winds were still boisterous, above all other noises again and again arose that wail of a soul in anguish. Others, too, went to listen, and fled from the place in terror. And soon the house of Baji Lal came to be shunned by every one as if it had been plague-stricken.

"'Now you understand why your old friends greeted you with woe-begone looks. The inner meaning of the story I do not know, but I have told you the facts that are in my possession. And glad shall I be if you can conceive any solution for the mystery, and free Baji Lal and his wife from the terrible accusation of having murdered the man who was their guest within the gate and had eaten of their salt. If you cannot, then we must just say kismet, I suppose. Man cannot strive against fate.'

"'Is it your belief, Bimjee,' I asked, 'that the stranger was really done to death in Baji Lal's home?'

"'No,' he answered decisively. 'But all the same, I have the evidence of my own ears that a curse has fallen upon the place.'

"For the moment I made no further comment, but sat silent, revolving the strange story in my mind. My reverie, however, was of short duration, for all of a sudden Bimjee sprang to his feet in great excitement.

"'Look, look,' he cried, pointing to a crowd of villagers coming in our direction. 'At last they have laid hold of Baji Lal and his wife, and are bringing them here for punishment.'

"Bewildered by the suddenness of this blow, I could but watch in helpless silence the advancing throng, with my poor friends in their midst, their hands bound, their tottering footsteps directed by rude shoves towards the pipul tree, the accustomed assembly place of the villagers and the village council.

"A minute later, however, I had regained my self-possession, and when the procession came abreast of me, I stepped in front of it and commanded a halt. Courtesy to me as a visitor to the village was sufficient to exact this measure of obedience. But when I demanded that the ropes should be cut and the prisoners liberated, a storm of angry protests was the only result.

"The leader of the crowd approached me, and in a respectful voice said they were sorry to refuse my request, but a crime had been committed that disgraced the whole community. The spirit of a murdered man haunted the house of Baji Lal and Devaka, and cried to heaven for vengeance. The villagers would never prosper if they allowed this foul deed to pass unpunished; why, only that very morning a strange sickness had seized some of their cattle, and two sacred cows had died in spasms of pain—an omen from the gods that could not be disregarded.

"I saw that it was useless to argue with the man. But I made another attempt to have the prisoners' bonds at least loosened, for I could see that the cords bit cruelly into their arms. After some consultation this point was conceded. Baji Lal shot at me a look of gratitude, but his poor little wife merely used her freed hands to hide her face in the folds of her sari.

"'Now my friends,' I cried boldly, 'this case must be properly tried. Where is the patel?'

"I had noticed that the headman of the village was not present, and in asking for him had in mind that he was my personal friend, so that I might appeal to him with better success for the release of the prisoners.

"'The patel is away on a day's journey,' cried a voice in the crowd.

"'Then must the accused be taken to the village constable,' I declared, 'and kept by him until the patel returns and the council of elders can be properly assembled.'

"My bold assumption of authority had stilled the tumult, and to my surprise every one now seemed willing to do my bidding.

"'Come along then,' cried several voices, as the prisoners were once more urged forward. I kept close by their side, and when we gained the constable's house and the staked enclosure that served as a place of detention, I too passed within, leaving the leaders of the crowd to guard the gateway.

"When we were alone, Baji Lal and Devaka threw themselves at my feet, and thanked me for the aid I had rendered them.

"'My children,' I said, as I raised them up, 'were I not assured in my own mind that there is some grievous mistake, and that you can explain the mysterious disappearance of your guest, I should not be here by your side. But tell me your story, and I shall advise you to the best of my powers.'

"Baji Lal lifted his eyes, and gazed at me mournfully but fearlessly.

"'Chunda Das,' he began, 'you have known me now for many years. Have I ever done aught to shake your confidence?'

"'Never,' I affirmed.

"'Have you ever heard me tell a lie?'

"'Never,' I again replied.

"'Well, then, you will believe me when I say that I told the truth in declaring that the stranger went away in the night. His servant came back all in a hurry for him, and he would not tarry even until daylight, although I pleaded with him to stay.'

"'I believe you,' I said, for, even apart from my prior trust, the man's look convinced me that he was speaking true words.

"'Yes, this is the simple truth,' he went on. 'And yet'——here his voice faltered, and he glanced down pityingly on his wife crouched upon the ground, rocking herself and wringing her hands. 'And yet I know, we know, Devaka and I, that Sheikh Ahmed has been murdered.'

"I started aghast, and involuntarily drew my garments around me.

"'Nay,' he said reproachfully, reading my unacknowledged and almost unformed thought, 'but not at our hands, Chunda Das.'

"'Then how do you know that he is dead?' I questioned, already ashamed that a doubt could have crossed my mind as to my friends being art and part in such a dastardly deed. 'What makes you think so?'

"'I do not think; I know,' he said decisively. 'And I will tell you why. The night after the Sheikh left was cold and windy, for the monsoon was approaching. Devaka and I were sitting together, and as we listened to the wind blowing outside she expressed the hope that our guest was safely at his destination, for in his state of health the inclement weather would be harmful. Before I could answer her we were startled to hear quite close to us a faint cry. I got up and looked around, and so did Devaka, for she is brave, my wife. But we could not find anything to account for the disconcerting sound.

"'We sat down again, but before long we heard once more the wailing cry, louder now and more prolonged. We started up, and this time went outside in spite of the rain carried by the lashing wind. However, we could discover no one—neither man nor beast. So we went in again, and shut the door.

"'And all that night long this strange thing continued. Sometimes the sound was softly sobbing, then it would grow to a heartbreaking wail. We could not go to bed. Fear kept us awake, for we had come to the conclusion that it was the spirit of Sheikh Ahmed trying to make us understand that he had been murdered on the road.

"'Day after day, and night after night we were haunted by the cries and sobs of this spirit. Can you wonder that our hearts grew weak from fear, that we shunned our neighbours lest they should enter our dwelling and, hearing these sounds, suspect that we had done some grievous wrong? That is my story, Chunda Das.'

"And the strong man sank to the ground, as he buried his face in his hands.

"'It is even a relief to be here,' he cried, in broken tones, 'here, prisoners in this place of shame, because at least we are no longer haunted by the voice of the dead Sheikh.'

"He flung his hands out in an abhorrent gesture, and raised tear-filled, pleading eyes to mine.

"I had been listening intently to Baji Lal's story, and had watched the changes on his impassioned face. When the tale was ended, Devaka threw herself prone at my feet, and pressed her lips to the hem of my robe. I was touched by her silent beseeching, though I hastily, and I fear roughly, commanded her to arise.

"'Dear friends,' I said, 'this is indeed an extraordinary occurrence. And how I can help you is more than I at present know. But rest assured that I will exert myself to the utmost to remove from your heads the infamy of such an accusation.'

"I mused awhile, then put a few questions as to the personal appearance of the stranger, Sheikh Ahmed, and also that of his servant, the exact hour of their departure, and the direction in which they had gone. After learning these things, I took my leave, commending Baji Lal and his wife to the care of the constable, whose promise that nothing would happen to his prisoners until the patel's return I sealed with a handful of rupees.

"This matter settled, I strolled back to the pipul tree beside the tank, thinking that it might be useful to pick up the remarks of the loiterers. But to my surprise I found virtually the whole village in assembly, and to my dismay soon gathered that it was their fixed intention to kill Baji Lal, give to Devaka the privilege of committing suttee, and then burn down the haunted house whence the accusing sounds came, making of their own home the funeral pyre of both victims.

"I plucked my beard in my distress; I felt so helpless. If only the headman was here, together we might have devised something. But alone I was powerless. Plunged in gloomy forebodings, I did not notice the approach of the barber, until he touched my sleeve to announce his presence.

"'You have heard what they mean to do?' he asked.

"I nodded.

"'We must save them, Chunda Das. But I beg of you not to place any reliance on the patel's coming, for he sides with the rest of the villagers, and will help them to deal out the swift justice which he believes to be well deserved. Besides it was his cows that died this morning.'

"At this statement, then indeed my last hope was gone. For we were far away from any town where I could have invoked the aid of the Emperor's soldiers. I shook my head despairingly.

"'Oh, yes, Chunda Das, you will devise some way,' protested the barber, reading the hopelessness in my mind. 'You have a fleet horse, and can ride after Sheikh Ahmed, find him, and call him back again. Or, if he be really dead, you can bring word of how his end came.'

"'Will there be time for all this?' I asked dubiously.

"'We must make time,' he answered. 'The patel will be back before long. You can use the interval in getting some food, and in preparing for the road. I think your influence with him will at least secure delay for some days, until you can return with the information in quest of which you go. But mark my words, unless the Sheikh shows himself, or you can prove how he met his death on the road, then assuredly will the doom of our friends be sealed.'

"'Very well,' I said, contented in my mind; for if my search for Sheikh Ahmed failed, I could bring back with me some of our master Akbar's soldiery to rescue the prisoners.

"During the afternoon the headman returned, and I lost no time before interviewing him. I told him how firmly convinced I was that Baji Lal and Devaka were innocent, and that I would prove it if he gave me the chance to do so. At first he shook his head, but on my promising that the unfortunate couple would in the interval make no effort to escape, and that I would surely be back in two weeks' time whether or not success in my mission attended me, he yielded to my entreaties, the less reluctantly because I further undertook to pay him the value of his dead cows.

"So, after a brief good-bye visit to Baji Lal and his wife, I set forth on my journey.

"Six days later I entered the bazaar of Punderpur. I went to a travellers' rest house with which I was familiar, to see whether I could glean any information as to the present whereabouts of Sheikh Ahmed, who, in his travels, I had discovered, had been making for this place.

"Seated around the courtyard of the caravanserai were many visitors and their friends of the town. With some of the latter I was acquainted, but for the present I only returned their greetings with a silent salaam. I was anxious to meet with an old friend, a munshi, learned in many languages, whose profession kept him on the outlook for the numerous travellers from distant parts who passed this way.

"I had just espied the man of whom I was in quest, seated at some distance among a group of idlers, when I was accosted by a stranger handsomely accoutred and of line bearing. He said that he had heard I was recently arrived from Sengali. He had friends in that village, and would be glad to hear of them.

"I told him that for the present I was occupied with pressing business, but a little later I would be at his disposal, and pleased to give him any information in my power. He thanked me courteously, and said he would return in the evening, when, perhaps, I would be more at leisure. I had cut short this interview, paying, indeed, little heed to the stranger, for I had noticed that my friend, the munshi, not knowing of my presence in the inn, was in the act of taking his departure. I hastened after him.

"The venerable munshi was delighted to see me, and insisted on my sharing his evening meal. We moved in the direction of his home, and he gave me the chit-chat of the day. Until our repast was finished I did not mention the object of my visit. Only after we were comfortably seated on the veranda, enjoying the cool night air, did I approach the subject, discreetly, as was fitting, by talking on topics quite at variance from the one in my mind. But after a time I ventured to ask whether many travellers had passed recently. He looked at me shrewdly and smiled.

"'At last, my friend, you tell me the reason of your coming here. You are in search of some one.'

"'Truly I am,' I replied, 'and it is a matter of life or death to find the man I am seeking.'

"Thereupon, without further preamble, I related the story of Baji Lal and the missing Sheikh.

"At the end of my narrative Munshi Khyraz—such was my host's name—sat silent for a spell. I knew my friend, and allowed him his own time to make any comment. Presently he broke from his reflections.

"'About the time you mention,' he began, 'just before the first rains, a stranger was brought into this town by some woodcutters. Their story was that the wounded man had been attacked by his servant when travelling, and left for dead in the jungle.'

"I started, and leaned toward him eagerly.

"'A clue!' I cried. 'A clue! Where is he now?'

"The old sage looked at me with disapproval in his eyes.

"'Excitement and impetuosity of speech are for the young, my friend,' he said, gravely. 'They are not becoming in the matured.'

"I lay back again on my cushions, feeling justly censured. The light of displeasure dying from his eyes, the munshi proceeded:

"'I had the victim of this outrage carried to my house, and, his wounds not proving serious, he was soon well, and able to think of resuming his journey. He was very reticent concerning the motive of his servant for attempting his life, and foolishly, to my mind, made no effort to trace the miscreant. When leaving he said that in all probability he would return this way a few weeks later. So, my friend, he may be here any day, for it is a good long while since he left.'

"Repressing my eagerness this time, I sat still for a few minutes, then said:

"'I think it is certain from what you have told me that the wounded man was the one I am now seeking.'

"'Perhaps, perhaps, but only time will decide,' he replied, cautiously. 'You must wait and see.'

"'Wait! wait!' I cried, impatiently. 'There is no time to wait. I must act, and that quickly.'

"The munshi looked at me commiseratingly, but contented himself with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Just then a servant approached, and whispered in his master's ear. The old man sat up from his half-reclining attitude, and methought for a moment that an amused smile crept over his face.

"'Admit him,' he said to the attendant. 'Admit him at once.'

"Then, turning to me with his accustomed gravity, he added in explanation: 'A friend of mine has called. He is an interesting man, and I want you to know him.'

"I was about to protest that I had not come there to make new acquaintances, when the curtain was pushed aside, and none other than the stranger who had addressed me at the caravanserai stepped on to the veranda. He crossed over to the master of the house, and greeted him affectionately. I decided to remain at least a short time, and waited quietly until my host should introduce his visitor. This he straightway proceeded to do, presenting us to each other with a courteous wave of his hand.

"A glow of pleasure suffused the newcomer's face when he recognized me.

"'Fate is indeed kind,' said he. 'I was going to try and find you again at the rest house, when, lo and behold! here you are, the guest of my good friend, the munshi.'

"'What! Are you already acquainted?' exclaimed our host, visibly surprised, despite the philosophy of self-restraint he was so fond of preaching.

"It was my turn now to bestow a reproving look.

"'We have met,' I rejoined, with proper dignity, 'but as yet I have not the honour of acquaintance.'

"To cover this well-deserved rebuke, the munshi clapped his hands and bade the servant who responded to the summons to bring sherbet for our refreshment. After the cooling draught, and when we were all comfortably settled, the stranger, whose name had not yet been spoken, turned to me and said:

"'Now perhaps you will give me the news from Sengali.'

"'It is grievous,' I returned, 'and it is owing to trouble there that I am now here.'

"'Indeed. And what may the trouble be? As I told you this afternoon, I have friends in the village, and am consequently interested.'

"'Aye, aye, tell him the story you have just told me,' called out the munshi.

"Courteously the stranger awaited my response, in his eyes an anxious look of inquiry. As I proceeded with my recital his excitement grew apace, and he leaned forward in his eagerness to miss not a word. At the finish he started to his feet, and, catching hold of my arm, exclaimed:

"'What! You tell me they will burn down their very home?'

"I nodded assent.

"'Then must we start in all haste for Sengali,' he continued, excitedly. 'To-night, now, or it may be too late.'

"I was moved by this display of fervid sympathy on the part of a stranger for my humble friends in their sorry plight. But I could not avail myself of his proffered assistance.

"'Pardon me,' I replied, 'but I have first to find Sheikh Ahmed, who has been the cause—the innocent cause—of all this grievous anxiety, and whose presence is needed to put an end to the false charge of murder.'

"'Don't you know that I am Sheikh Ahmed?' cried the stranger.

"'Yes, yes, he is no other,' laughed our host, the munshi. 'I avoided giving the wounded traveller's name a while ago, Chunda Das, as a fitting curb to your eagerness, and now, thanks to the Sheikh paying me a visit, you have met somewhat quicker than I expected.'

"For full a minute I was speechless. Was it possible that I had so soon found my man, or, to put it more correctly, that the man had found me? The gods be praised for working on behalf of the helpless and oppressed!

"But my meditations were rudely interrupted. The Sheikh had again gripped me by the shoulder, and was speaking rapidly:

"'Rouse yourself, friend; rouse yourself. This is no time for wonderment.'

"'So you are indeed alive and well, Sheikh Ahmed?' I asked, in blundering fashion.

"'You can see for yourself,' he replied, impatiently. 'But I little thought I should have been the means of doing to these kind people who nursed and nourished me so grievous an injury. But, Allah be praised! there is yet time to repair the wrong and make amends. Let us away, away, without the delay of another hour.'

"The munshi clapped his hands once more, and the servant was quickly in attendance.

"'These friends of mine will take the road,' he said to the man, 'so soon as the moon is up. Go you now to the inn, and bid the grooms make ready their horses for a long journey. Quick—lose no time!'

"The Sheikh motioned the servant to his side, and added some whispered instructions. Then, turning to me, he said:

"'The moon will serve us ere very long.'

"By my silence I had acquiesced in the plan of speedy departure, for nothing could better suit my own wishes. But meanwhile there would be an interval of patient waiting.

"'Can you account for the strange wailing around the house of Baji Lal?' I asked of the Sheikh.

"He hesitated a moment before making answer.

"'To me it is all a mystery,' he said at last. 'Some one, perhaps, is playing a trick upon them.'

"'A sorry trick,' I commented bitterly.

"'But their home must certainly be saved,' he added.

"'Not merely their home,' said I. 'Their lives are also in jeopardy.'

"'We must save them! we shall save them!' cried the Sheikh, with upraised hand and in a tone of determination that brought great comfort to my anxious heart.

"The time soon passed, and, our horses having been brought round from the rest house, we took leave of our good host, Munshi Khyraz.

"Just as we turned on to the high road, ten or a dozen mounted troopers emerged from the shadow of a tope of trees, and came clattering behind us.

"'These are my escort,' explained the Sheikh. 'I have already encountered too many dangers on this road to run further risks.'

"I made no comment, but inwardly reflected that once more kind fate was working in my favour. Of course, with Sheikh Ahmed alive, there would be no need to use force for Baji Lal's rescue. But safeguarded on the way, we should be all the quicker in reaching our destination.

"It was toward noon on the fourth day from Punderpur—for there were now no inquiries to delay me—that we came in sight of the village of Sengali. It was just ten days then since the date of my departure in quest of the missing man. So my mind was at ease; according to the patel's promise, there remained yet four days of safety for Baji Lal and Devaka.

"But all at once fear smote my heart. There was a strange absence of people in the fields and on the outskirts of the village. Dreading I know not what, I begged of the Sheikh to press forward. Our escort was some distance behind us on the road, but, without waiting for the troopers, we set our tired horses to their best speed.

"Coming to the pipul tree and the tank, we found this usual place of congregation deserted. Now indeed was I thoroughly alarmed, likewise my companion, and of one accord, without waiting to visit the constable's compound, we turned our horses' heads in the direction of the home of Baji Lal.

"And there indeed we found a dense crowd, the hoarse murmur of their voices being borne to our ears before we turned the corner. The first thing that smote my eyes was a thin column of smoke mounting skyward.

"Sheikh Ahmed too had seen, for he whipped up his horse unmercifully. As he flashed past me, I was struck by the ashen grey that had stolen over his features. His face was drawn, his nostrils quivered from excitement.

"I could not but admire his eager determination. 'What gratitude! What unselfishness!' I thought to myself. 'Here is this man, rich and highly placed, ready to endure prolonged fatigues and hardships, to face any adventure, and all for the sake of a humble villager and his wife who did but nurse him when he was sick. Not often do we find such men, not often do we see the rich incommoding themselves for the poor.'

"Emulating his example, I urged my lagging beast to a final effort. In a brief minute we were on the outskirts of the crowd, where perforce we had to dismount. The Sheikh led the way as, afoot, we passed through the throng.

"When we got within clear view of the house, I saw that faggots had been placed all around it, and that these were already alight, giving forth the smoke we had seen from a distance. I looked about me in dread. Where were Baji Lal and Devaka? I questioned a man who was blocking my way. He turned round, and, to my joy, I recognized Bimjee, the barber. He gazed at me sadly, and, without expressing surprise at seeing me, pointed to the flat roof.

"There, beyond the low parapet, tied to a stake, was poor little Devaka. Her face was covered by her sari, and whether she were living or dead it was impossible to tell.

"'And her husband?' I asked, trembling. 'Not yet dead?'

"'No. But when the sun is at its highest point, which will be in a few minutes now, he will be dispatched with a sword and his body flung into the fire. See! they are already pouring oil on the faggots, so that the haunted house may be quickly consumed. It will soon be all over with our poor friends.'

"'Not so, not so,' I cried, 'for Sheikh Ahmed has come back. See, there he is, hastening to rescue his humble friends. He has not rested day or night since he heard of the disaster that had befallen them.'

"The crowd had parted before the Sheikh, and through the rift I now beheld Baji Lal, standing with his hands tied behind him at a little distance from his burning home. But to my surprise Sheikh Ahmed darted past him.

"'Ah!' exclaimed the barber, noticing my disconcerted look. 'He thinks that Devaka is in greater peril, and leaves you to rescue her husband.'

"I looked at the curling smoke, and shuddered. Assuredly there was no time to be lost if the woman was to be saved.

"'You are right, Bimjee,' I cried. 'We'll look after Baji Lal. Come along.'

"And I gained my friend's side none too soon, for already a sword was pointed at his breast. Leaping on the man who held it, I thrust the weapon aside.

"The patel, standing by, turned on me with a ferocious look.

"'How dare you hinder justice, Chunda Das?' he demanded. 'This is by decree of the panchayet.'

"'Your promise bound the village council as well as yourself,' I retorted. 'It is but ten days since I departed on my quest for Sheikh Ahmed, and you assured me faithfully that for two weeks at least nothing would be done to this man and his wife.'

"'More cattle have died,' he answered, sullenly.

"The crowd were pressing round us, with angry gestures and threatening looks, like wild beasts baulked of their prey.

"'Pull his beard,' 'Knock off his turban,' and such like impertinences were hurled at me. But, taking no heed of these, I again addressed the patel, raising my voice so that all around might hear.

"'You gave me fourteen days to find the stranger whom you say was murdered, and ahead of time I have returned and brought him with me. And Baji Lal, whom this very minute you were about to murder—aye, murder—is an innocent man, and his wife a maligned woman.'

"And such is human nature, that they who a short time before had been so keen to see Baji Lal done to death, were now loud in their acclamations at his escape.

"But the patel looked at me with lowering brow.

"'Fine words, Chunda Das, but I do not see the Sheikh?'

"The crowd hushed their outburst, and faces again looked serious.

"'Oh, yes,' cried some one. 'Let us see him. Where is Sheikh Ahmed?'

"'Where, indeed, but in the burning house, endeavouring to save your other victim?' I made answer, turning round and pointing with uplifted arm to Devaka, who now was standing with hands held out beseechingly to the throng, her face uncovered, full of entreaty.

"And even as we gazed the flames burst through the roof beneath her feet, and the clouds of smoke almost hid her from view.

"There was no sign of Sheikh Ahmed, and I was greatly perturbed. What had happened to him? Why did he not appear on the roof? From their countenances I could see that the spectators were still unconvinced of the presence of the man.

"Baji Lal up to this time had remained passive, his head bowed as if in helpless acknowledgement of the power of destiny. But at my call he cast his eyes upward with the others, and, beholding the form of his wife through the eddying smoke wreaths, he broke out in loud and passionate appeal.

"'Chunda Das, friends, neighbours, do not let her burn. She is innocent of any crime. Do not let her perish. Chunda Das, cut my bonds, that I may save her or die with her.'

"I was about to sever the thongs that confined his wrists and ankles, when the patel laid a detaining hand on my shoulder.

"'Not so fast, not so fast, if you please. We have not yet seen Sheikh Ahmed, and Baji Lal is still condemned to die.'

"I flashed an indignant look at the relentless man, but a cry of 'There he is, there he is,' broke from the mob. And, sure enough, through the clouds of smoke, could be seen the figure of the rescuer, crouching low as he cautiously crept along the roof, with a hand on the parapet to guide his movements. With bated breath we watched as he neared the fainting woman, and then, rising to his full height, tore at the rope which bound her to the stake.

"At last he had released her, and gathered her senseless form in his arms. But a billow of black smoke blotted out the grim scene. A moment of tense silence and sickening uncertainty. Then a great shout from the throng, a shout of pent-up joy and relief, when the hero with his burden came staggering out through the flame-framed doorway of the building.

"I rushed forward with the rest, and received Devaka in my arms. She had swooned. I gazed at her rescuer in admiration, his face blackened, his hair singed, his clothes torn. But could I believe my eyes? The brave man who had sunk to the ground in a heap was not Sheikh Ahmed, but Bimjee, the village barber!

"Hastily consigning Devaka to the care of women standing by, I hurried forward.

"'Sheikh Ahmed is in that house,' I cried, 'probably overpowered by the smoke. We must save him. Who will come with me?'

"All remained silent. Then some one called out:

"'It is no use, Chunda Das. It is impossible, the walls are falling.'

"But at that very instant the Sheikh appeared through the clouds of smoke rolling from the doorway. He tottered forward, bearing in his arms a large bundle wrapped in a cotton quilt. Outstretched hands caught him as he fell, and carried him away from the burning ruins, for the walls had now indeed collapsed.

"Neighbours vied with each other in offers of help. Baji Lal and Devaka were taken to one house. Sheikh Ahmed and myself went to another. The barber had recovered, and had quietly departed for his own home.

"Next day I sent round word that all the villagers were to come to the usual place of public gathering, the widespread pipul tree. No second bidding was required; the open space was soon crowded, right to the edge of the tank and to the wall of the temple.

"When all were assembled, with Sheikh Ahmed, Baji Lal and Devaka, also Bimjee the barber, standing by me, I faced the throng.

"'Good people,' I said, 'our worthy friends, Baji Lal and his wife, have been publicly disgraced. They are now to be publicly reinstated as honoured members of the community. Sheikh Ahmed will explain the sobbing and wailing that used to distress them just as much as it mystified you all, and eventually caused suspicion of an abominable crime. Listen to the story Sheikh Ahmed has to tell.'

"As I stepped back a pace, the Sheikh came forward. His handsome countenance beamed goodwill to all, and a murmur of friendly greeting bore testimony to his popularity. In soft, melodious voice, he addressed the eagerly expectant crowd.

"'I am indeed heartily grieved that through any fault of mine my kind host and his wife Devaka should have suffered so severely. I may now inform you that when I tarried in your midst some time ago, I was on my way to the court of Akbar on an important mission. I was, as you know, accompanied by a servant. I had in my possession a most valuable harp, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones. It had formerly belonged to the Maharanee of Kholtan, and had been looted from her palace during the last war. Our Emperor, the Padishah, had long been desirous of possessing it, for the fame of the instrument, its beauty and value, was widespread. By a fortunate chance I became acquainted with the man who was hiding it in the city of Poona. I promised, in the name of my lord and master, the mighty Akbar, a lac of rupees, and undertook to carry the instrument safely to the Emperor at Fathpur-Sikri. On account of its extreme value we decided to conceal it in a rough packing, and, with a view to avoid attracting attention, that I should be attended on the road by no more than one body servant, a man who had been long in my employment and in whom I placed implicit confidence.

"'Well, all went right until, just as we neared this village I fell sick—as I now believe, through the agency of my faithless attendant, who would have poisoned me so that he might possess himself of the precious harp. Fortunately I was succoured by our good friend, Baji Lal, and nursed back to health by him and his devoted wife Devaka. I had sent my servant on to Punderpur, there to await a summons when I again felt well enough to travel. But one night he returned of his own accord, bringing the news that the Padishah himself was approaching Punderpur, and now would be the time for me to complete my mission.

"'But there was something in the fellow's manner that awakened my distrust. At this time my suspicions were but vague, yet sufficient to prompt me to caution. Without discovering my inmost thoughts, I acquiesced in his proposal, and, disregarding the entreaties of my kind hosts, prepared to take the road without an hour's delay.

"'But first I had to dispose of the bejewelled harp in a place of safety, for I had made up my mind not to carry it any longer with me. At Punderpur it would be possible to get an escort of Akbar's cavalry, and then I could return with them for the treasure. So meanwhile I had to find some sure hiding-place, this in preference to burdening anyone here with my secret.

"'The walls of my room in Baji Lal's house were covered with a thick tent-cloth. While my servant was feeding the horses, I loosened one edge of this, and to my joy found the space between the inner and the outer covering sufficient to take the harp. I stripped off the bulky wrappings in which the harp had been carried up to this time, leaving only a swathing of fine silk. Then I carefully bestowed the instrument in its place of hiding, tying it securely to a beam high up toward the ceiling, and finally I restored the tent-cloth wall exactly as I had found it. Thereafter I stuffed a few billets of wood into the empty casing of the harp, and when my servant returned I bade him carry forth the package, and secure it across my saddle-bow, just as I had been wont to travel heretofore. Even though it was yet dark, we rode forth on our way.

"'Next day I noticed that my servant kept watching me in a furtive manner, and I congratulated myself on the precaution I had taken, and inwardly resolved to be more than ever on my guard not to be caught unawares. But, alas! I was still weak, and exhausted nature overcame vigilance, so that one night I slept soundly. I remember nothing of what took place. But when I came to myself some woodcutters were bathing my head. They said I had been beaten and wounded, and had bled profusely. I tried to stand up, but was seized with a great faintness, and would have fallen had not my succourers steadied me. With tender care I was carried to Punderpur, happily not far distant, where I was yet once again kindly bidden to the home of strangers.

"'A munshi named Khyraz was the name of my new benefactor. He was most wishful that I should hunt down my faithless servant, who, I need not say, after leaving me for dead, had disappeared with my horse and the package which was supposed to contain the precious harp. However, as I had still the instrument in safe keeping, and as I did not want the story of its being in my possession to get noised abroad, for this would have robbed me of the pleasure of surprising our King of Kings with the production of the coveted prize, I let the rascal go, for the time being at all events. But his day will come, the son of a pig who betrayed the master whose salt he had eaten for years. May the tombs of his ancestors be defiled!

"'Of course the news that had brought me to Punderpur was false. So far from Akbar being in the vicinity, I now learned that he had gone on a journey to Gwalior, and would not be back to Fathpur-Sikri for several months. Therefore, I took the opportunity of paying a business visit to Benares, resting content in my mind that the harp could be in no safer place than in its snug hiding at the home of Baji Lal, where no robbers would ever dream of prying.

"'However, I was just on the eve of retracing my steps to this village when Chunda Das came to Punderpur in quest of me. We met at the house of Munshi Khyraz, and there I learned of the disaster to my friends here, and the terrible doom that was contemplated for them. Imagine my dismay, too, when I discovered that their house was to be burned. My beautiful harp! It would be destroyed! So we hurried back, sparing neither ourselves nor our beasts.

"'When I saw the tongues of flame actually curling about the home of Baji Lal, I became oblivious of aught else save the rescue of the priceless harp from destruction. Through the blinding smoke I groped my way to my old sleeping room. I nearly succumbed three or four times before I managed to tear down the tent-cloth. Then, by the flicker of the flames I could see the harp reposing in its hiding place in all its gleaming beauty. I had no time to feel surprised that its silken covering had been blown aside, and indeed was at that very moment fluttering in a current of air.

"'Just as my hand reached forth to seize the precious instrument, I was startled by a subdued plaintive cry. For an instant I paused and wondered. Then I discovered that the wind was blowing through a crevice in the wall just behind the harp, and that it was the breeze rushing through the opening that was causing the strings to vibrate and give forth their weird complaining.

"'And this, good people, is the explanation of the unrestful spirit. When the wind blew strong, the cries were loud and insistent; when the blast came gently, the sobbing was low and wailing.

"'I am distressed that so simple a thing could have caused such trouble. But in reparation I will undertake to build for Baji Lal and his wife a new home. I hereby give to their good friend, Chunda Das, an undertaking to that effect'—he passed a paper to me as he spoke—'whereby I make myself liable for all moneys expended. And to Devaka I give this chain, which I hope she will always wear in remembrance of her good deed in nursing Sheikh Ahmed back to health.'

"And, throwing a long gold chain around the neck of Devaka, the Sheikh bowed to the company, and, with salaams of farewell, passed through the throng, toward his escort waiting for him all ready mounted at a little distance. Soon there was the clatter of hoofs, and they were riding away across the plain. I had noticed that at Sheikh Ahmed's saddle-bow was a bulky package, undoubtedly the precious harp in its wrappings.

"That was all there was to be said, and after a while the crowd began to disperse. On every hand there was loud acclaim for the Sheikh and his noble generosity, and Devaka's gold chain, which she now held timidly in her hand, was the object of many admiring glances, and drew for her general words of congratulation.

"At last all had gone their several ways, leaving Baji Lal and his wife, Bimjee and myself, alone beneath the pipul tree. A first look into each other's eyes showed that we were all of the same mind. In their excitement of the moment the unthinking throng had approved; but for us there was nothing but bitter disappointment.

"It was Baji Lal who first voiced his feelings.

"'Chunda Das,' he said slowly, 'Sheikh Ahmed has promised to recompense me for my losses; he has given a costly present to my wife. We want neither his gifts nor his promises. They are as dust to us. The little we did for him was not done for gold. Yet we took him into our home, and fought death for him, and won. He left a valuable treasure under our roof without consulting or trusting us. When this act of his brought disaster on our heads, it was no thought for Devaka or for me that brought him back in hot haste. It was the possible loss of the harp that occupied all his thoughts. When he came upon the scene, he saw me tied and ready for the word to die. On the roof he saw my wife with the flames already leaping to devour her. Yet not one finger did he put forth to save either her or me. He just rushed into the smoke-filled house, that he might secure the harp—an instrument of great price, let it be. But you, my dear friend, had ridden night and day to find the man whom our neighbours thought we had murdered. Our faithful friend Bimjee'—Baji Lal stretched out his hand to the barber—'defied fire and smoke to rescue a defenceless woman from an atrocious death. Neither of you had anything to gain by these deeds of bravery and self-sacrifice. You did them for pure love of us. What do we want with that selfish man's gifts? Chunda Das, give me the paper which binds him to his promise to restore my home, that I may tear it into fragments and scatter it to the winds. Devaka, my wife,'—and his voice fell to a tone of great gentleness—'hand the necklet to Chunda Das, that he may restore it to the giver.'

"Devaka, who, as I have said, had already removed the chain of gold from her neck, looked at it perhaps a little lingeringly, let it slip through her fingers caressingly, then with a sigh placed it in my hands and turned away. But her sigh, I knew, was less for the surrender of the gift than for the unworthiness that had prompted its bestowal.

"Her husband contemplated her compassionately. 'You have not many trinkets, little wife,' he said, 'but this one would not remind us so much of good deeds done as of base ingratitude. I have no home to take you to at present, but Bimjee wants us to stay with him until I can build you another.'

"He stretched forth his hand to Devaka, and, leading her away, departed. Bimjee, after a salute to me, followed his bidden guests at a little distance. For myself, I remained awhile to ponder all these happenings.

"To say that I was disappointed in Sheikh Ahmed would not adequately express my feelings. From the first I had been attracted to the man, by his handsome figure, distinguished bearing, and pleasant smile. During our intimacy of four days on the road I had admired the brilliancy of his conversation, and had taken great delight in his entertaining recitals of adventure in many far lands. From one like him I had certainly never expected this display of callous selfishness. But such is life. We have to keep ourselves prepared for many disillusionments. And, as I remarked at the outset of my narrative, an experience of this kind teaches that, if in judging our fellow men we are to be chary of condemnation, it behoves us also to be discreet in commendation."

And so ended the Bombay trader's story.

After an interval of silence, the voice of the Rajput chief spoke up:

"What became of Baji Lal and Devaka?"

"Oh," replied the merchant, "from that day their happiness returned and continued. For the villagers were ashamed to have doubted them, so all contributed to the building and furnishing of their home, and would take no denial. Good fortune seemed to settle on their roof-tree. Little Devaka is now the mother of a fine boy, and she wears a chain of gold around her neck, one given to her by the women of the village when they heard that she had scorned the proffered gift of Sheikh Ahmed, and understood the reason why."

"And the Sheikh and his wonderful harp?" questioned the Afghan soldier. "Did the costly toy reach its destination?"

"The harp is in the treasury of our Sovereign Akbar. Sheikh Ahmed started back for Poona with the lac of rupees he had promised in the name of the Padishah and half a lac more for his own recompense. But he and his company were attacked by a swarm of Mahrattas, and perished to a man."

"And the treacherous servant?"

"About him I know nothing. My tale is told."