“He trembles! he turns pale,” shouted out Bobbachy Bahawder, ferociously exulting over his conquered enemy. “Dog!” shouted I—(I was sitting with my head to the donkey’s tail, and so looked the Bobbachy full in the face)—“not so pale as you looked when I felled you with this arm—not so pale as your women looked when I entered your harem!” Completely chop-fallen, the Indian ruffian was silent: at any rate, I had done for _him_. We arrived at the place of execution. A stake, a couple of feet thick and eight high, was driven in the grass: round the stake, about seven feet from the ground, was an iron ring, to which were attached two fetters; in these my wrists were placed. Two or three executioners stood near, with strange-looking instruments: others were blowing at a fire, over which was a cauldron, and in the embers were stuck prongs and other instruments of iron. The crier came forward and read my sentence. It was the same in effect as that which had been hinted to me the day previous by the Grand Vizier. I confess I was too agitated to catch every word that was spoken. Holkar himself, on a tall dromedary, was at a little distance. The Grand Vizier came up to me—it was his duty to stand by, and see the punishment performed. “It is yet time!” said he. I nodded my head, but did not answer. The Vizier cast up to heaven a look of inexpressible anguish, and with a voice choking with emotion, said, “_Executioner—do—your—duty!_” The horrid man advanced—he whispered sulkily in the ears of the Grand Vizier, “_Guggly ka ghee, hum khedgeree_,” said he, “_the oil does not boil yet_—wait one minute.” The assistants blew, the fire blazed, the oil was heated. The Vizier drew a few feet aside: taking a large ladle full of the boiling liquid, he advanced - “Whish! bang, bang! pop!” the executioner was dead at my feet, shot through the head; the ladle of scalding oil had been dashed in the face of the unhappy Grand Vizier, who lay on the plain, howling. “Whish! bang! pop! Hurrah!—charge!—forwards!—cut them down!—no quarter!”