“_Bunnia_—Mission-school—expelled—_box-wallah_ (peddler)—Ceylon pearl-merchant—all mine English education—out-casted, and made up name Dana Da—England with American thought-reading man and—and—you gave me ten rupees several times—I gave the Sahib’s bearer two-eight a month for cats—little, little cats. I wrote, and he put them about—very clever man. Very few kittens now in the bazar. Ask Lone Sahib’s sweeper’s wife.” So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land where, if all be true, there are no materialisations and the making of new creeds is discouraged. But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all! THROUGH THE FIRE Copyright, 1891, by Macmillan & Co. The Policeman rode through the Himalayan forest, under the moss-draped oaks, and his orderly trotted after him. “It’s an ugly business, Bhere Singh,” said the Policeman. “Where are they?” “It is a very ugly business,” said Bhere Singh; “and as for _them_, they are, doubtless, now frying in a hotter fire than was ever made of spruce-branches.” “Let us hope not,” said the Policeman, “for, allowing for the difference between race and race, it’s the story of Francesca da Rimini, Bhere Singh.” Bhere Singh knew nothing about Francesca da Rimini, so he held his peace until they came to the charcoal-burners’ clearing where the dying flames said “_whit, whit, whit_” as they fluttered and whispered over the white ashes. It must have been a great fire when at full height. Men had seen it at Donga Pa across the valley winking and blazing through the night, and said that the charcoal-burners of Kodru were getting drunk. But it was only Suket Singh, Sepoy of the 102d Punjab Native Infantry, and Athira, a woman, burning—burning—burning. This was how things befell; and the Policeman’s Diary will bear me out. Athira was the wife of Madu, who was a charcoal-burner, one-eyed and of a malignant disposition. A week after their marriage, he beat Athira with a heavy stick. A month later, Suket Singh, Sepoy, came that way to the cool hills on leave from his regiment, and electrified the villagers of Kodru with tales of service and glory under the Government, and the honour in which he, Suket Singh, was held by the Colonel Sahib Bahadur. And Desdemona listened to Othello as Desdemonas have done all the world over, and, as she listened, she loved. “I’ve a wife of my own,” said Suket Singh, “though that is no matter when you come to think of it. I am also due to return to my regiment after a time, and I cannot be a deserter—I who intend to be Havildar.” There is no Himalayan version of “I could not love thee, dear, as much, Loved I not Honour more”; but Suket Singh came near to making one. “Never mind,” said Athira, “stay with me, and, if Madu tries to beat me, you beat him.” “Very good,” said Suket Singh; and he beat Madu severely, to the delight of all the charcoal-burners of Kodru.