"Speak on, O Bisrâm, bearer! Wherefore dost not obey? Speak on about Mai Kâli and the Noose--the Noose that is so soft, that never slips. Wherefore dost not speak, son of an owl?" The voice was childish, fretful. So was the listless little figure in a flannel dressing-gown, which lay half upon the reed mat spread on the verandah floor, half against the red and yellow livery coat of Bisrâm, bearer. The latter remained silent, his dark eyes fixed deprecatingly on a taller figure within earshot. It was the child's mother, standing for a glance at her darling. "Speak! Why dost not speak, base-born child of pigs? Lo! I will smite thee. Speak of Mai Kâli and the Noose. Lo! Bisrâm, bearer, be not unkind. Remember I am sick. Show me the Noose. _Ai!_ Bisra! show it to Sonny Baba." The liquid Urdu fell from the child's lips with quaint precision, and ended in the coaxing wail of one who knows his power. That was unmistakable. The man's high-bred, sensitive face, which had not quivered under the parentage assigned to him by the thin, domineering voice, melted at the appeal, and the red and yellow arms seemed to close round their charge at the very suggestion of sickness. Bisrâm gave another deprecating glance at the tall white figure at the door, and then, from the folds of his waistcloth, took out a silk handkerchief crumpled into a ball. But a dexterous flutter left it in uncreased folds across the child's knees. "Lo! Protector of the Poor! such is the Noose of Kâli," said Bisrâm, deferentially. Seen thus, the handkerchief looked larger than one would have expected: or perhaps it is more correct to say longer, for, the texture being loose like canvas, even the slight drag across the child's knees stretched the stuff lengthwise. It was of that curious Indian colour called _oodah_, which is not purple or crimson, but which looks as if it had been the latter and might become the former--the colour, briefly, of recently spilt blood. It looked well, however, in the soft lustrous folds lying upon the child's white dressing-gown. He smiled down at it joyfully: yet not content, since there was more to come. "Twist it for Mai Kâli. Twist it, Bisrâm, bearer! _Ai!_ base-born, twist it or I will smite--" "It is time for the Shelter of the World to take his medicine," began Bisrâm, interrupting the imperious little voice. "Lo! does his Honour not see the _mem_ waiting for him?" Sonny gave a quick glance at his mother. He knew his power there also. "I'se not goin' to take it, mum," he called decisively, "till he's twisted a' Noose. I won't--I want a' stwangle somefin' first. Tell him, mum--please. Then I'll 'waller it like a good boy." "Do what he wants, Bisrâm, and then bring him here," said Sonny's mother, her eyes soft. For the child had but lately chosen the path of Life instead of the Valley of the Shadow, so even wayward footsteps along it were welcome.