necessary, argue with the princess, and arrange the matter prudently, provided he would go with them as their Master, keep himself seated in a dignified look, which they would show him how to assume, and now and then make some gesture during the discussion. He consented to their words, and leaving his axe and anything he had behind him, followed the cunning Brahmuns to catch a woman. The unfortunate damsel fell a victim to the united subtility of the Brahmuns, acknowledged her failure, and, faithful to her vows, married Kalidass, their supposed Master. At the usual hour a maid-servant showed him his room, and he entered in, tired and excited. Illiterate as he was, he was able to reflect upon the contrasts between his position then and a few hours previous,--a boor in the country, and a master of the sages,--a poor Brahmun in the morning, and the husband of a princess in the evening,--accustomed to lie down on the cottage-floor, now the silvery bosom of a bedstead in the palace is to receive him. There was a mosquito-net round the bed, and he did not know how to get in. The story says, he climbed the bed-post that held the net, to see if there was any opening on the top, and finding none he jumped in, tearing the costly net to pieces. Late in the evening the princess came in, and first of all, wishing to exchange some words, began to look for a topic. In the mean time a camel in the king’s stable roared. “The Oostros roar very loud, do they not?” she said. No response came from Kalidass. “Am I wrong? Is it not Oostro which I heard roar just now?” “Yes, you are right,” he said; “certainly it is ‘_Oo’tro_,’” not knowing the true pronunciation of the word. The princess felt quite alarmed at the word “Oo’tro,” for a scholar, a man of delicacy would hardly use it. She thought perhaps it was owing to a “_slip_ of the tongue,” that he said _Oo’tro_, or it might be that he was tired or was making fun.