On the second morning Fazil's messengers reached Wye, without interruption, tethered their ponies in the courtyard of a temple, where they obtained shelter, and set about the work they had to do without loss of time. Taking their instruments, they wandered into the bazar, and sang their ballads to willing listeners; for the hunchback was a master of his art, and had a willing and skilful pupil in the boy.

"Wast thou not in the camp at Jowly?" said a man coming up to Lukshmun, "and this lad too, before we attacked the Toorks,—and we let thee go? Ah yes, and you promised to sing the hymn of the goddess at Tooljapoor, and did not return when we were victorious! Ill for you, for you would have had a share of the gold. By the Mother! you shall sing it now. Come with me!"

"Not so," said Lukshmun; "we are engaged to sing at Vishnu Pundit's house—where is it?—and shall be free in the evening only and if thou canst direct me to one Moro Trimmul, a Brahmun, and let me go now, we will sing an hour at night for as many as you choose to bring to the temple of Ballajee, where we have put up, and take what you have to give us."

"Moro Trimmul!" cried the man laughing, "thou wouldst have to go deep into hell for him. Where hast thou been, friend, that his fate did not come to thine ears?"

"I was afraid," replied the hunchback; "I fear fighting, sir; and if a drawn weapon is flashed in my face, I faint. So we ran away from Jowly—did we not, my son? and have been travelling about the country ever since, getting what we can. But what of the Brahmun, sir? was he killed in the fight at Jowly?"

"No, no—not there," replied the man; "but he is dead, nevertheless. Some one cut him down the day the Sutee was carried off."

"Ah yes, I have heard of that, sir; the people have strange stories about it; but who carried her off? and who killed the Brahmun? A Brahmun slain! O the impiety!" continued Lukshmun devoutly; "think of that, my son! A holy Brahmun!"

"I don't know; I was not there," replied the man; "we were still out at Jowly, or it would not have happened: but they said some of Afzool Khan's men, who were starving, made a DurÓra on the Sutee, and carried her off; as to Moro Trimmul, he was no loss—a bad man, my friend, though a Brahmun. They might have spared the girl, however, for all the use she was to the Brahmuns afterwards. I wonder no one kept her, for she was very lovely, they say."

"O sir," cried the hunchback innocently; "and did she not live? Who killed her?"

"They say not," he replied; "and that the cruel men killed her for the ornaments she wore. There was a woman's corpse found some days afterwards on their track, and the remains were brought here, and her father was told of it. They say he went mad after that, for he believed they were his child's. He married Moro Trimmul's sister, you know. Ah, it is a curious story altogether."

"Indeed," returned Lukshmun simply; "I should like to hear it all. If I sing for you to-night will you tell it to me?"

"A bargain!" cried the man joyfully; "come to us without fail; we are a jovial lot, and there may be good liquor, and some of the dancers too. I will come for thee. 'Faith, the story of the Moorlee's murder by Moro Trimmul is as good as a scene in a play."

"What Moorlee?"

"O, the Tooljapoor girl, Gunga, who was with him. They found her body under the window of his room at PertÂbgurh, hanging in the trees below the precipice, and so the whole came out; but he was dead before then. One of those dare-devil Mussulmans had killed him, and they took some of the Sutee wood, and burnt him there, by the river."

"Ai BhugwÂn! O Lord, forgive me for having slain the Brahmun," ejaculated the hunchback to himself; "and I did it too. Well, I can't help hitting hard when I do hit; and truly he had murdered some one, it appears, so it was only justice after all. Yes, sir," he continued, "I understand. And the Sutee's father?—her name was T—T—T——"

"Tara," said the man; "and her father is Vyas Shastree of Tooljapoor. He is better now, and I saw him a while ago sitting by the porch of Vishnu Pundit's door, weak, but better; people pity him very much. Now I must go. You will not forget?"

"No," said the hunchback; "you will find me at the temple after the lamps are lighted; till then we must sing about the streets. Come, my son. Let us hurry on, boy," continued Lukshmun. "I know the house. Do not pretend to notice any one; we will sing the ballad of the Vow, after the first invocation."

They passed on rapidly: up a few cross streets and alleys, till they reached that in which was the house that they sought. In the covered alcove, beside the outer door, sat several Brahmuns, apparently talking together; one elderly man, covered with a sheet, was reading.

Lukshmun and Ashruf began to sing their ballads at the doors of every house as they advanced, and women from within, came out and gave them handfuls of flour or rice, which were dropped into the bag which Lukshmun carried. Gradually, as they came nearer, the hunchback changed the songs to those of his own country, Canarese and Mahratta in turn, and he was sure there must be some, with which the Shastree was familiar.

Yes, it was he, reading, while the others sat near him, and conversed among themselves; thinner than when the hunchback had last seen him, and looking weak, yet still remarkable and unmistakable. Once or twice the Shastree had looked up at the singers, not so as to seem to care about their performance, but as if a familiar sound had reached him. Now, however, it came to the turn of the Pundit's house, and the hunchback and Ashruf stopped before it.

"Go on," said one of the Brahmuns impatiently; "you have been bawling all down the street, disturbing our meditations, and the Shastree there is weak. Go on, and make no noise."

"Maharaj," said Lukshmun, humbly putting up his hands, "we are under a vow, made before the Holy Mother at Tooljapoor" ("May she forgive me for telling the lie!" he thought parenthetically), "to sing before every house in Wye, and bring her what we get; 'tis a good work, learned sirs, and we are poor people,—do not hinder us; 'tis a long way to go, and we are weary. Let us sing you a ballad for our vow, or only a verse, else we cannot go on."

"Make haste then," said the first spokesman impatiently.

Lukshmun returned the lute; and as he played the prelude which Tara had heard, he saw Vyas Shastree, who had not noticed him, look up. His large eyes were opened to the full, and he leaned forward with an expression of intense curiosity. Then the singers broke at once into the ballad:—

"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?"

"Can I go into the court? I know all the ballad, and can sing it sweetly for the women; they always like it," returned Lukshmun. "Will you listen, Maharaj? 'tis not very long;" and as they went in, they sang on more loudly and confidently than before. Some women of the house came and looked at them, and listened, and among them were Anunda and Radha. The hunchback looked from the Shastree to his elder wife, and saw the tears falling from both their eyes; at last the Shastree rose and went in to her, and when Anunda saw him, she burst into bitter weeping.

"Grieve not for one at rest," Lukshmun heard him say; "at rest in the peace which was denied her here. Yet the old ballad moves me strongly, wife. Come hither," he cried to the singers; "take this for the sake of.... No matter now; I am Vyas Shastree, and what strange chance hath sent you I know not, but take this," and he offered money.

"The gods be thanked! No; not from you," exclaimed Lukshmun, in Canarese. "Come aside," he continued in the same tongue, "for I have that to tell you and her, which will give you new life and strength. Listen," and he whispered in the Shastree's ear; "Tara lives, well and in honour. I bear a token and a letter which she hath sent you. Come, and I will give it; 'tis for her mother, and this letter for thee," and he took it from a fold in his turban.

"Anunda! O wife!" cried the Shastree, trembling and gasping for breath, as he leaned on her, opening the letter. "She lives—our Tara. Come—he knows of her; see her own writing, the holiest and most secret Muntra I taught her; she hath written it."

"Away with ye!" cried Radha to the other women about, "this is not for your ears;" and the group were left alone; for Radha, advancing, shut the door of the court, and stood there with them.

"Do ye know this?" asked Lukshmun, when he had disengaged the ring from his inner garment. "Lady, it was to be given to thee, if thou art her mother! She is well who gave it to me, three days ago."

Her mother! Who could doubt it who saw Anunda then? The piece of gold spoke a thousand loving greetings to her. She laughed and cried by turns. She could speak nothing intelligibly. She kissed it rapturously, and hugged it close to her bosom, then looked at it till the tears rained from her eyes, and again did the same. A new life! a new daughter! born again, as it were. Anunda could not believe it.

"Thou art mocking us," she said at last, as a revulsion of feeling appeared to possess her. "This was among the jewels given to JÁnoo NÄik, when ... she never got it."

"True," replied Lukshmun, "and she has the rest," and he enumerated them; "and here is a letter about her from my master, with whom she is. Listen to me, I can tell you better than that writing."

Listen? ah yes, to the sweetest tale they had ever heard, did they listen for hours. The Brahmuns at the door wondered, and the people from within came and looked and wondered too, why the Jogies sat here talking to the Shastree—but still they sat. Once, for a moment, the Shastree's cruel belief rose up against him, and forbade him to see an outcast; but nature asserted its own. "They dare not meddle with me," he thought, "and we cannot be as she is. But no matter, we will go to her, wife; yes, we will go to-morrow. Get the things ready. Thou wilt guide us, friend?"

"And guard ye, too, with our lives," said Lukshmun. "Yes, to-morrow early, we will set out."

And so next day Vishnu Pundit and his friends marvelled that the Shastree and his family left them so suddenly, and knew not why they went, or whither.