Later, when we had been parted for months, it happened that I was to go away and far off, and I came to bid Gobind good-bye. “It is farewell between us now, for I go a very long journey,” I said. “And I also. A longer one than thou. But what of the book?” said he. “It will be born in due season if it is so ordained.” “I would I could see it,” said the old man, huddling beneath his quilt. “But that will not be. I die three days hence, in the night, a little before the dawn. The term of my years is accomplished.” In nine cases out of ten a native makes no miscalculation as to the day of his death. He has the foreknowledge of the beasts in this respect. “Then thou wilt depart in peace, and it is good talk, for thou hast said that life is no delight to thee.” “But it is a pity that our book is not born. How shall I know that there is any record of my name?” “Because I promise, in the forepart of the book, preceding everything else, that it shall be written, Gobind, sadhu, of the island in the river and awaiting God in Dhunni Bhagat’s Chubára, first spoke of the book,” said I. “And gave counsel—an old man’s counsel. Gobind, son of Gobind of the Chumi village in the Karaon tehsil, in the district of Mooltan. Will that be written also?” “That will be written also.” “And the book will go across the Black Water to the houses of your people, and all the Sahibs will know of me who am eighty years old?” “All who read the book shall know. I cannot promise for the rest.” “That is good talk. Call aloud to all who are in the monastery, and I will tell them this thing.” They trooped up, _faquirs_, _sadhus_, _sunnyasis_, _byragis_, _nihangs_, and _mullahs_, priests of all faiths and every degree of raggedness, and Gobind, leaning upon his crutch, spoke so that they were visibly filled with envy, and a white-haired senior bade Gobind think of his latter end instead of transitory repute in the mouths of strangers. Then Gobind gave me his blessing, and I came away. These tales have been collected from all places, and all sorts of people, from priests in the Chubára, from Ala Yar the carver, Jiwun Singh the carpenter, nameless men on steamers and trains round the world, women spinning outside their cottages in the twilight, officers and gentlemen now dead and buried, and a few, but these are the very best, my father gave me. The greater part of them have been published in magazines and newspapers, to whose editors I am indebted; but some are new on this side of the water, and some have not seen the light before. The most remarkable stories are, of course, those which do not appear—for obvious reasons. CONTENTS