Many a tale was told to beguile the time, the supposed Chhatris were adepts in telling stories. Idolatry recounted much of the history of his own family, which to any one who had not drunk of the poison of Superstition would have appeared very horrible indeed. Many a widow in that family had been burnt alive on the funeral pile. Idolatry delighted in giving the details, and telling of the courage and devotion of the women, but he told not how many had been stupefied by bang, or how many had been really, but secretly, kept from springing from their bed of flames, by long bamboos held down by the Brahmins. Stories of shrieking babes flung by their own mothers into rivers, of poor wretches crushed beneath the ponderous wheels of an idol-car, in the vain hope of saving their souls by destroying their bodies, in tales such as these Idolatry delighted. And his besotted hearer actually expressed approval, actually wished that he had been present when such monstrous crimes were committed! Oxen and buffaloes would have taken no delight in beholding such murders, but Superstition had sunk Bandhu to slower level than that of the brutes! Then Vice, child of Idolatry, told his stories; but at their nature I will not even hint. Had not Bandhu been utterly debased by the drug given by Farebwala, he would have closed his ears with his hands, or quitted the place in disgust. Reader! Have your ears ever drunk in such stories, and have you ever dared to connect them in any way with the sacred name of religion? At sunset the three pilgrims performed their devotions, and Bandhu particularly noticed how careful were his companions to perform theirs in the most orthodox way, with ablutions and many repetitions of the name of Rám. "How pious are these Chhatris!" thought he. The two men made a little fireplace for themselves, and cooked their victuals. Bandhu had brought his food ready prepared, and as his companions showed that they preferred eating alone, he took his meal a little apart. Darkness was gathering round, which made the small fire by which the strangers prepared their meal more distinctly visible. The moon had not yet risen. Bandhu, who had been unable to sleep at noon, was just dropping asleep, when he was startled by a light touch on his arm. He was about to call out in his fear, when a low voice beside him whispered, "Silence! If you love your life, be still!" Bandhu, looking up, in the faint light could just distinguish the form of Prem Chand bending over him. "Fly, while there yet is time!" continued Prem Chand, in the same low but earnest tone. "Yonder men, whose names are Idolatry and Vice, are well-known Thugs." Bandhu started, and a cold perspiration broke over him at the dreaded word. But Bandhu's terror was not sufficient to give him wisdom. He was determined to put faith in no warning uttered by the messenger of the king. As he had said in the garden-house before, so he said now, "I do not believe one word of what you tell me!"