a son of thee--what else?" said the
man sullenly. "Look! I bleed."

Messua said nothing, but it was at her wounds that Mowgli looked, and
they heard him grit his teeth when he saw the blood.

"Whose work is this?" said he. "There is a price to pay."

"The work of all the village. I was too rich. I had too many cattle.
THEREFORE she and I are witches, because we gave thee shelter."

"I do not understand. Let Messua tell the tale."

"I gave thee milk, Nathoo; dost thou remember?" Messua said timidly.
"Because thou wast my son, whom the tiger took, and because I loved thee
very dearly. They said that I was thy mother, the mother of a devil, and
therefore worthy of death."

"And what is a devil?" said Mowgli. "Death I have seen."

The man looked up gloomily, but Messua laughed. "See!" she said to her
husband, "I knew--I said that he was no sorcerer. He is my son--my son!"

"Son or sorcerer, what good will that do us?" the man answered. "We be
as dead already."

"Yonder is the road to the Jungle"--Mowgli pointed through the window.
"Your hands and feet are free. Go now."

"We do not know the Jungle, my son, as--as thou knowest," Messua began.
"I do not think that I could walk far."

"And the men and women would be upon our backs and drag us here again,"
said the husband.

"H'm!" said Mowgli, and he tickled the palm of his hand with the tip
of his skinning-knife; "I have no wish to do harm to any one of this
village--YET. But I do not think they will stay thee. In a little while
they will have much else to think upon. Ah!" he lifted his head and
listened to shouting and trampling outside. "So they have let Buldeo
come home at last?"

"He was sent out this morning to kill thee," Messua cried. "Didst thou
meet him?"

"Yes--we--I met him. He has a tale to tell and while he is telling it
there is time to do much. But first I will learn what they mean. Think
where ye would go, and tell me when I come back."

He bounded through the window and ran along again outside the wall
of the village till he came within ear-shot of the crowd round the
peepul-tree. Buldeo was lying on the ground, coughing and groaning,
and every one was asking him questions. His hair had fallen about his
shoulders; his hands and legs were skinned from climbing up trees,
and he could hardly speak, but he felt the importance of his position
keenly. From time to time he said something about devils and singing
devils, and magic enchantment, jus