Bopaul turned away; he was disgusted with the openly expressed brutality of the speaker; and he was profoundly sorry for his friend. All along he had feared that something of this kind would occur. The ways of caste families were familiar to him. His own people would have pursued the same course had he become an apostate from Hinduism. He stopped to ask another question. "You are sure that he was unable to leave the compound after----" he paused, unable to frame the expression. The other understood. "Quite certain; the man was too sore to put one foot before the other," he replied with a hard laugh. "How do you suppose he got to the well?" "On his hands and knees, of course." "And the widow ceremonies will take place three days hence?" "Without fail, knowing how set upon the business Sooba is." Bopaul walked back to his sister deep in thought. The news troubled him. He was helpless in the matter, and could do nothing. He wished that he had brought more pressure to bear upon his friend when the offer came from Alderbury. That was a golden opportunity missed that was not likely to occur again--always supposing that Ananda was still alive. That he was dead, and by his own hand, was impossible of belief the longer he considered it. Mayita was still playing happily enough. She was in the middle of an imaginary wedding. A datura blossom was the bride and a wood-apple the bridegroom; she was playing the part of the go-between, and was negociating the dower. When she saw her brother she hid the happy couple in the folds of her rough cloth, whispering to the bridegroom that his joy should not be long delayed. "Come, little one," said Bopaul. "We must go home to our mother. You will soon have a companion to play with." "I! who will have the courage to play with a widow in the face of the gods?" she asked sadly. "One who will be in the same sad case as yourself, child." "Another widow! I will not play with her! Is it not enough to have me in the house? We do not want a second widow to double our ill-luck. Only this morning the eldest son of our cousin met me by the cowhouse, not knowing that my mother had sent me for some milk. He cursed me; but all the same two hours later as he was running through the garden a thorn entered his foot and made him lame. I thought his mother would have beaten me; she was so angry; she said it was all my fault. I hid till you called me; I was so frightened, too frightened to eat any breakfast; so I am very hungry now. No! no! brother! we want no more widows in our house." "She will not live with us." "Who is she?" asked Mayita, her curiosity aroused. "Ananda's widow." "Aiyoh! Is it possible that Ananda is dead!" "Anyway his wife is a widow and the ceremonies take place three days hence." "Poor Dorama! Aiyoh! poor Dorama!" CHAPTER XXII