The Babu had his back against the shed, the others were grouped about him, and at his left there was a vacant space. It was growing dusk. "Hail, worthy jailer!" said Surendra Nath pleasantly. "I was about to tell the marvellous story of King Bhoya’s golden throne. But I will even now check the stream at the source. Your time is precious. My comrades must wait until we get inside." "Not so, Babu," said the warder gruffly. "Tell thy tale. Barik Allah![#] you nine are the last of my round. I will myself wait and hear, for thou hast a ready tongue, and the learning of a pundit,[#] Babu, and thy stories, after the day’s work, are they not as honey poured on rice?" [#] Praise to Allah! [#] Learned man, teacher. "You honour me beyond my deserts. If you will deign to be seated!" The warder marched to the vacant spot at the Babu’s side, and squatted down, crossing his legs, his heavy bunch of keys lying on the skirt of his dhoti. The armed Marathas stood at a little distance, leaning on their matchlocks, within hearing of the Babu, and at spots where they could see any one approaching from either end of the yard. It would not do for the warder to be found thus by the officer of the watch. "It happened during the reign of the illustrious King Bhoya," began the Babu; then he caught his breath, looking strangely nervous. "It is the heat, good jailer," he said hurriedly; "--of the illustrious King Bhoya, I said, that a poor ryot[#] named Yajnadatta, digging one day in his field, found there buried the divine throne of the incomparable King Vikramâditya. When his eyes were somewhat recovered from the dazzling vision, and he could gaze unblinking at the wondrous throne, he beheld that it was resplendent with thirty-two graven images, and adorned with a multitude of jewels: rubies and diamonds, pearls and jasper, crystal and coral and sapphires. [#] Peasant.