Soon she was silent and when the men came again to see her they said to each other, margayi, dead gone, hyja! Other men soon came with a charpoy and took our kind new mama away and we never saw her again. Our dear mama and now our new mama both had gone and we were left alone in our sorrow that must be felt as it cannot be described. We cried ourselves to sleep in each other’s arms and were awakened in the early morning by the tramp of some people near us. There stood one of those white giants, not so tall as the one I had once seen. “Hallo!” said he, “What have we here?” Then speaking in Hindustani to some attendants of the serai, he asked who these children were. They said they did not know, that they had come with an old woman, that she had died of cholera in the night and had already been buried. The sahib, as I soon learned to call a white man, then turned toward us and though I was greatly frightened at first, his kindly face soon drove away every fear. He asked me, in Hindustani of course, who we were, and I told him I didn’t know. He asked where we came from and I couldn’t tell. He asked our names and I said we never had any names, and then he inquired who our father was, and I replied that we never had a father. Then he turned to his attendants and spoke in Hindustani so that I understood him well, saying, “This is a very strange thing under the sun! Two children who never had a father! What is the world coming to?” And then each of the others repeated, “Strange! barra taajub ki bat, a very strange thing under the sun, two children who never had a father! What is the world coming to?” I did not know what they meant by “under the sun” or “what is the world,” but that is what they said. Up drove a great covered cart drawn by a horse. Such a thing I had never seen before. There might have been many in the place where we lived, but as I had never been outside of our court how could I have seen them?