Tarachand stopped to cough, and his round liquid eyeballs, as he turned them upon Mohendra, stood out of their creamy whites with enthusiasm. “One word,” he cried, as soon as he had breath: “you are the Ma_cau_lay of Bengal! No less. The Ma_cau_lay of Bengal!” (John Church, when he read Mohendra’s article next day, laughed, but uneasily. He knew that in all Bengal there is no such thing as a sense of humour.) “My own feeble pen,” Tarachand went on deprecatingly, “has been busy at this thing for the to-morrow’s issue. I also have been saying some worthless remark, perhaps not altogether beyond the point,” and the corrected proof went across the table to Mohendra. While he glanced through it Tarachand watched him eagerly, reflecting every shade of expression that passed over the other man’s face. When Mohendra smiled Tarachand laughed out with delight, when Mohendra looked grave Tarachand’s countenance was sunk in melancholy. “‘Have the hearts of the people of India turned to water that any son of English mud may ride over their prostrate forms?’” he read aloud in Bengali. “That is well said. “‘Too often the leaders of the people have waited on the Lieutenant-Governor to explain desirable matters, but the counsel of grey hairs has not been respected. Three Vedas, and the fourth a cudgel! The descendants of monkeys have forgotten that once before they played too many tricks. The white dogs want another lesson.’ “A-ha!” Mohendra paused to comment, smiling. “Very good talk. But it is necessary also to be a little careful. After that—it is my advice—you say how Bengalis are loyal before everything.” The editor of the _Word of Truth_ slowly shook his head, showing, in his contemptuous amusement, a row of glittering teeth stained with the red of the betel. “No harm can come,” he said. “They dare not muzzle thee press.” The phrase was pat and familiar. “When the loin-cloth burns one must speak out. I am a poor man, and I have sons. Where is their rice to come from? Am I a man without shame, that I should let the Sirkar turn them into carpenters?” In his excitement Tarachand had dropped into his own tongue. “‘Education to Bengalis is as dear as religion. They have fought for religion, they may well fight for education. Let the game go on; let European officials grow fat on our taxes; let the wantons, their women, dance in the arms of men, and look into their faces with impudence, at the _tamashos_ of the Burra Lât as before. But if the Sirkar robs the poor Bengali of his education let him beware. He will become without wings or feathers, while Shiva will protect the helpless and those with a just complaint.’