"Not before that matter is settled, father--that is, about the man I brought with me." "Yes, I had forgotten--certainly. Light the large lamps," cried the chief to the attendants at the lower end of the room; "let us see what manner of man he is. Who is he, Gopal?" "That we have to find out, father. They thought him a spy of the Emperor's, and he came from Aurungabad, by Bheer, to Kullianee, to the Gosai's. He changed some bills for gold, and he has got it. I offered escort, but was refused; so I went from Muntalla to the Burr tree at Kinny, for we heard he was going to sleep in the Mutt at Surroori. They were sending him on privately, father." "Shabash! well done, son. A spy? Well, if we are true to the King's salt, he goes no farther; and he was being sent privately! Ah, the old foxes! Here he is--what a sight!" cried the chief, breaking into uncontrollable laughter. "Who art thou? What have they done to thee? Speak." In truth the poor Lalla was a show. The order to search him had been literally complied with, and while two stout fellows held his arms wide apart, he was helpless to struggle. Rama and Lukshmun, who would allow no one to touch him, had dived into every pocket, and felt every possible place of concealment, even to the Lalla's hair, which was loosened and hung about his shoulders. His turban had been removed and shaken out, while one end was now fastened to his right arm. The bag of gold, tied round his waist, his bundle of precious papers, his sword, dagger, and waist-shawl, had all been taken from him and made into a bundle, and the articles were deliberately counted by the hunchback as they were deposited, one by one, in the centre of the shawl spread out for the purpose. It was quite in vain that the Lalla entreated, besought, struggled, or resisted by turns; the place, the rough men around him, all forbade hope of pity, and he submitted. Finally, Lukshmun dragging him by the end of his turban, Rama pushing him behind, and several of the others assisting, the Lalla was brought into the presence of the chief, where he sank down, stupidly staring about him. Where were all the fine speeches he had contrived, which should have carried the chief's heart at once? All the couplets, too, from the Bôstan that he was to have quoted?--All gone. His head was bare, his clothes untied and hanging loosely about him; his boots removed: and his appearance of utter helplessness, and the hopeless, piteous expression of despair in his face, might have excited compassion in any but the hardened men by whom he was surrounded and confronted. "Who art thou, knave? Speak," cried the chief, sternly, again raising his voice and checking his laughter. "Who art thou?"