old madman off."

"Oh, hush, my lord, pray," whispered Salaman. "Thy servant loves to
serve thee, and his highness is thy friend. If aught befel my lord from
the holy man's curses, what should I do?"

"Do?" I repeated. "Send him about his business."

"But he will not go, my lord, until he pleases."

"Then I shall send one of the sowars with a message to the rajah," I
said firmly. "I am not going to be insulted by that old dog."

"My lord, I pray," said Salaman, imploringly. "His highness would
punish me, and my lord knows it is no fault of mine his coming."

"Look here, Salaman," I said; "if you call me `my lord' again, instead
of `sahib,' I will send to his highness. There, get rid of the old
fellow as soon as you can. We should have such a man put in prison in
England. Come and give me some food, and let him curse his voice back
again. I don't wonder that the tiger wanted to kill him."

Salaman shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you know why the fierce beast did not eat him?"

"Because he found out that he had made a mistake in striking down a holy
man, my--"

"Ah!"

"Sahib," cried Salaman, hurriedly.

"That's better," I said. "No! The tiger did not touch him afterwards,
because he was so dirty."

I walked away, hearing the fakir whispering wishes of evil against me to
the attendants, and spitting on the ground from time to time, while
Salaman followed me to my dinner under the tree, and brought me a cool,
pleasant draught of lemon and water and some fresh fruit, leaving me
afterwards to moralise on the difference between my religion and his,
and afterwards to sit dejectedly waiting for my wound to heal, and to
hope that the rajah would not come.

He did not come, and as I sat thinking, I was obliged to confess that I
was too weak to make any attempt at escape for some time yet; and even
when I grew stronger, the chances appeared to be very small.

"Never mind," I said at last, trying to be cheerful. "Some chance may
come yet."

But my spirits did not rise, for there was always the black cloud which
I could not pierce, behind which was hidden the fate of my friends, and
all that were dear to me.

The next day I heard that the old fakir had not gone. His wounds were
bad, and he had taken up his abode about a hundred yards away, amongst
the roots of a large tree.

"Have you doctored his scratches?" I asked.

"No, my lor--sahib," said Salaman; "he will not have them bathed, and he
has t