There was a strong but gentle pressure of the bracelet upon the wrist of Bandhu. He raised his mirror, so that he could see in it the reflection of his janeo, the emblem of caste. "Vanity of vanities" gleamed forth from the frame, and Bandhu saw his cherished janeo to be but a rotten thread, which life soils, and death snaps asunder! Slowly and reluctantly Bandhu unfastened the cord which had been his pride, then bore it in his hand to his friend Prem Chand. "I have no offering to bring to my king," said he, "for all that I possess, save this, I owe to his bounty. But as a token of my repentance, and a pledge of my loyal love, may I be permitted to lay down the badge of my caste at the feet of my king?" The youth's desire was ere long to be fulfilled. As soon as Bandhu had recovered sufficient strength, he and Prem Chand started on their journey towards the royal city. Pleasant converse shortened the way. Bandhu's health improved day by day, and his mind became clearer. He constantly looked at his mirror, and never neglected the slightest warning given by the bracelet. Great was the rejoicing in the palace when the travellers reached it in safety, and most gracious was the reception given by the king to both. Goodly apartments were assigned to each, and they ate daily at the royal table. Bandhu, instead of being the slave of a tyrant, or a victim of a Thug, found himself the possessor of every good gift, the companion of the pious, the friend of the pure, the adopted son of a king. CHAPTER XI. THE PARABLE EXPLAINED. HAVE you not seen, O reader! Goodly trees and lofty palaces faintly reflected on some small stream, whose waters are too muddy to give back their images clearly? Yet can we say, as we gaze downwards, "There is a palace, though I see not its grandeur,—there is a tree, though its beauty I cannot behold." My tale is even as the little troubled muddy brook in which is dimly reflected what is beauteous and grand. Listen awhile as I try to show you what are the great realities faintly imaged forth in my fable. Mankind are as the poor helpless child left in the jungle, sick of the foul disease of sin. Even the pure-lived Nanak * was compelled by conscience to cry,— "Keep me, O my Father, my Lord! I am without virtues; all virtues are Thine!" * For accounts of Goru (teacher) Nanak, and the poet Kabir, see further on. And one more enlightened than the great Goru hath written, "All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags." Thus lying, exposed and helpless, death—even the destruction of the soul, everlasting ruin—steals upon us, as the fearful beast drew nigh to the child. How could man, guilty and hell-deserving, be saved?