The old man stopped suddenly, having told all his story in a dull, monotonous voice, with little feeling and no dramatic display. I have tried to reproduce it just as he said it. There was no passion, no fierceness, no cruelty in his manner; but simply a deep, settled, uniform tone of hatred to the English. It was the only time I had ever heard the story of the Mutiny from a native point of view, and I give it as I heard it, without mitigating aught either of its horror or its truth. "And you are not afraid of telling me all this?" I asked. He shook his head. "The Sahib has a white face," he answered, "but his heart is black." "And the Nana?" I inquired. "Do you know if he is living still?" His eyes flashed fire for the first time since he had begun. "Ay," he cried; "he _is_ living. That I know from many trusty friends. And he will come again whenever there is trouble between the Feringhees and the other Christians: and then we shall have no quarrelling among ourselves; but Sindiah, and Holkar, and the Nizam, and the Oude people, and even the Bengalis will rise up together; and we will cut every Feringhee's throat in all India, and the gods will give us the land for ever after.... Good night, Sahib: my salaam to you." And he glided like a serpent from the room. FOOTNOTES: [1] Warren Hastings. [2] Village Treasury.