Historical fiction; India -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Thugs (Indic criminal group) -- Fiction
"I will accompany you," said Bhudrinath; and we took our leave and
followed the executioners. About an arrow's flight from the gate were
two scraggy, gnarled, and almost leafless neem-trees, beneath which
stood the group we sought, and round them all the urchins and idle men
of the village. We hastened up to them, and found that everything was
prepared: a rope with a noose in it hung over a branch, and one of the
Mangs was coolly sharpening a knife upon an old stone idol, which lay
beneath the tree--for what purpose I could not make out; however, my
business was not with them, but with the wretch who was so near his
death. He had seen us approach, and I thought was urging the Mangs
to despatch him before we came up; but they did not do so, as they
imagined we brought some other orders to them. I addressed myself to
the robber: "Will you not live?" said I; "so young as you are, have
you no love of life? I now again promise you protection if you will
confess, as you have been asked to do before."
"Let the cords be somewhat loosened which bind my arms," said the
robber, "and I will speak to you; at present, I am in too much pain to
talk."
"Loosen them," said I to the Mangs; "and one of you hold the rope in
case he attempts to escape."
The robber smiled faintly at what I said, and continued:--"You have
taken an interest in me, and although I owe my present condition to
you, yet sooner or later I should have come to the same end, or fallen
by some shot, or cut of a sword; therefore I forgive you my death.
But, again I repeat, I have no wish to live; nor, miserable as I am,
can you suppose I would purchase my life by an act of treachery to my
companions. Had my father lived, and remained in Mohun Lall's power, I
would have promised anything; but he is dead: my uncle, too, fell by
the hands of one of your men in the attack on your cart; and whom have
I left in this world to care for, that I should live? One day has seen
the end of my family; and it was our fate. Yet bear to Mohun Lall my
hate, and the curses of a dying man. It is he who has killed me, and
for this he will have to pay a fearful retribution. And now," said he,
turning to the Mangs, "do your horrible office; I have no more to say."
I was going to speak again, but Bhudrinath stopped me. "What is the
use?" said he; "the fellow is obstinate, and, depend upon it, if he
were spared, it would only be to lead good men into danger, if not into
destruction: let him die, he deserves it."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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