"But his prosperity was not fated to last. Well do I remember the day when some soldiers, sent by order of the peshkar of the court, arrived at the village with an order to bring him to 'the Presence.' My father vainly endeavoured to learn from them the reason of this sudden call for him, as he was regular in his payments to the government; and finding reasoning would not avail, he strove to bribe the leader of the party into conniving at his absence. But all would not do; he was obliged to accompany them, and he took me with him at my earnest entreaty. I was then a young man, probably about the age of the Sahib-zada there. We reached Nagpoor after some long marches, and on our arrival we were cast into a vile prison, our legs loaded with irons, and we were denied the commonest comforts. We had no paun or tobacco, no clean clothes, were not allowed to see any one, and were given the coarsest and most wretched food to eat. In this manner we passed four long months. My father in vain entreated to know what he was accused of, or who was his accuser; and equally in vain were his attempts to have his situation made known to his family and friends. We wearied ourselves in our lonely prison with conjectures as to what the cause of the misfortune could be, but without success. At last, one day that wretch Brij Lall, who died last night by my hand, came into our prison attended by soldiers. My father gave himself up for lost, and thought his hour of death had arrived; but recovering, he appeared to recognise Brij Lall, and instantly assailed him with imprecations and abuse. "When he had finished, Brij Lall, eyeing him with a grim look, said,-- "'Pateljee! perhaps you will now condescend to give the government some account of the effects of Jeysookhdas, the merchant, who lived in your village, and about whose affairs you well know I was sent some years ago. You may also remember the reception and treatment you gave me, for which, by the blessing of God, I will now see whether I cannot effect a return.' "'Thou art a liar, and a base-born rascal of a mootsuddee!' cried my father, 'and not one word shalt thou ever know from my lips: send some one more fit to confer with Kasim Patel, and he will tell what he knows; but not one word to thee, thou dog and son of a dog.'