Once it happened that a son of some grain-bag sat with me at meat, who was arrayed and speaking after the manner of the English. At each mouthful he committed perjury against the salt that he had eaten, the men and women applauding. When, craftily falsifying, he had magnified oppression and invented untold wrong, together with the desecration of his tun-bellied gods, he demanded in the name of his people the government of all our land, and turning, laid palm to my shoulder, saying—“Here is one who is with us, albeit he professes another faith; he will bear out my words.” This he delivered in English, and, as it were, exhibited me to that company. Preserving a smiling countenance, I answered in our own tongue—“Take away that hand, man without a father, or the folly of these folk shall not save thee, nor my silence guard thy reputation. Sit off, herd!” And in their speech I said—“He speaks truth. When the favour and wisdom of the English allows us yet a little larger share in the burden and the reward, the Musalman will deal with the Hindu.” He alone saw what was in my heart. I was merciful towards him because he was accomplishing our desires; but remember that his father is one Durga Charan Laha, in Calcutta. Lay thy hand upon _his_ shoulder if ever chance sends. It is not good that bottle-dealers and auctioneers should paw the sons of princes. I walk abroad sometimes with the man, that all the world may know the Hindu and Musalman are one, but when we come to the unfrequented streets I bid him walk behind me, and that is sufficient honour. And why did I eat dirt?