He gave the man no thanks, but there was a softness in his voice that satisfied him. Ananda turned back towards the little room that was to serve as bedroom and sitting-room for the present, a den in which even a dog would have moped and pined. A sound reached his ears causing him to stop. It was a wail of grief such as the women raised on the death of a member of the family. He called to the pariah. "Who weeps in the house?" "The big mistress and her women." "Is any one of the family dead?" "They weep because your excellency is not with them." "It is enough; go." It was indeed enough! At intervals during the night he heard the wail as he lay on his uncomfortable bed. It spoke volumes. He was dead to them from henceforth and worse than dead. He was an outcaste sunk to the lowest depths of degradation, ranked with the "untouchables," and regarded with loathing as unclean and abominable. CHAPTER VIII Pantulu rose the following day as usual and performed his ceremonial ablutions. Later in the morning when the family had dispersed he laid himself down in the shade of the verandah of the inner court. His wife had been watching him with some anxiety. He was too quiet, too wordless to satisfy her. She would have been better pleased if he had broken out into loud cursings and lamentations; if he had exhibited irritation and temper to the rest of the household. It would have been excusable if he had stormed at herself for some trifle; or dealt out correction to some of the younger members of the family. She and her women had obtained relief in the wailing and tears of the previous night. By the small hours of the morning every one was tired out and ready for sleep. They all awoke satisfied that the atmosphere was clearer and their balance of mind restored. Each went her way to perform her duty feeling that there was no need to waste more time in regret. Ananda's father had taken the misfortune differently. So far he had found no outlet for his grief. Throughout the long absence of his son he had daily and hourly looked forward to the boy's return. Sometimes he had been assailed by a haunting fear lest something should happen, lest Ananda should die in that distant land as Coomara had done and never come back; lest he himself should die. Then hope would revive and he would spend his idle hours picturing the home-coming and all its delights. Never in any of his visions did the evil enter that had actually overtaken the family; and now that it had come he could not face it. It hung about him like a dark shadow the depths of which he dared not fathom. His wife leaned over him where he lay on a mat against the wall. This feeble surrender to grief was not at all to her mind, and she had no intention of allowing him to take his trouble meekly. "Husband, you are not well. The kitchen woman shall make you a hot drink that will warm your heart."