CHAPTER VII.

THE words were still on Karim's lips, when he interrupted himself by the sudden exclamation, "See yonder!"

"There is a man running along the line!" said Matrá, looking in the same direction.

"The madman!" cried Karim. "He will be crushed by the coming train!" And loudly he shouted, again and again, to warn the man off the dangerous line.

The runner appeared not to heed or to hear. The speed at which he was advancing left him no breath to call out, but he threw up his arms wildly as if to excite attention.

"There may have been some accident to the train!" exclaimed Karim.

The words went like a knife to the heart of Matrá. He could hardly forbear rushing forwards to meet the runner, but Karim laid a hand on his arm. The men had not long to wait. In two minutes the panting messenger reached the platform.

"Train ran off the line!" he gasped forth. "Carriages smashed—people killed!"

Karim instantly hurried away to the telegraph office, and as rapidly as he could sent off a message to the nearest station, then went in search of some one to despatch with the tidings to the magistrate of the neighbouring town. He would have sent Matrá, but Matrá was not on the platform.

The zamindar was rushing along the line to the place where the accident had occurred. In his overwhelming anxiety, his former fatigue was forgotten; only Matrá felt as if weights were attached to his feet, for his speed could not keep pace with his will.

The scene of the accident was reached. The engine, a huge black object, loomed before Matrá, half encircled by a mass of broken carriages. A number of passengers were standing about, some shouting for help, some moaning with pain, some, especially women, crying with terror.

"Is any one killed?" gasped forth Matrá; he could hardly utter the question.

"A good many are hurt, only one killed," replied a railway guard, whose face bore the mark of severe bruises. "A sepoy lies yonder, poor fellow! His head was crushed under a wheel!" As he spoke, he pointed to a spot a few yards distant, where, in a little pool of blood, a fearful object to behold, lay the corpse of a tall sepoy.

In a moment, poor Matrá was on his knees beside the body, beating his breast, and sobbing forth, "My father! It is my father!"

It was to him a terrible moment. For years the young zamindar's hopes had clung to a meeting with his parent, the thought of seeing Bhola Náth had been the one bright spot in Matrá's prospect, the one sweet drop in his cup. And now as he looked on that poor mangled disfigured corpse, and saw in it the wreck of all his hopes, the strength and courage of Matrá completely gave way, he wept and sobbed like a child.

And if such was the grief of the son, what was the anguish of the poor old mother, when, on the following day, the sepoy's body was carried to her wretched hovel! Then indeed did Sibbi bewail the day of her birth; she tore the grey hairs from her head, and uttered bitter wailings, the wailings of those who mourn without hope.

By this time, poor Matrá had regained some calmness, but it was the calmness of despair. He had to make preparations for burning the corpse that night, and so miserably poor was he, that he had the bitter task of collecting most of the materials himself. The Brahmins, knowing that Matrá had no more power even to borrow, took very little interest in the funeral rites; one even reproached poor Sibbi, saying that the terrible misfortune which had come upon her was doubtless due to the wrath of the gods whom she had offended. It mattered little now to Sibbi whether they reproached her or not. Does the agitated ocean show more disturbance because of the pelting of a shower?

Nearly two hours after sunset the sad preparations were completed. The sepoy's corpse was laid on the funeral pile, the head to the north, the feet to the south. A man with shaven head set fire to the pile, and soon red flames were crackling and curling around the body, and a mass of smoke was obscuring the light of the full moon. Meta, in silent anguish, stood by, watching the fire do its terrible work.

"My son! What dost thou here?" exclaimed a voice behind him.

Matrá started, as if he had been spoken to by the dead. Turning round, he uttered a cry of joyful surprise, and then threw himself into the arms of his father!

Yes, it was indeed Bhola Náth who had arrived at Banda by that evening's train, and had come in time to see his mother and son, in bitter woe, paying the last honours to the corpse of one in no way related to them, whilst he whom they mourned as dead stood in life and vigour beside them. Sibbi rushed forward with extended arms, shrieking forth, "My son! My son!"

The sudden appearance of Bhola Náth beside what all supposed to be his funeral pile, roused the superstitious fears of some ignorant peasants. They believed him to be no man but an evil spirit. Some actually caught up stones, and Bhola Náth was in danger of being mercilessly pelted by his neighbours, but Sibbi threw her arms around her new-found son.

"He is no ghost!" she cried. "Behold his feet are not turned backwards! His voice is the voice of a living man! It is he whom I nursed as a babe in my arms! It is indeed my son, the light of mine eyes! Now shall I die happy!" *

* This strange kind of reception of Bhola Náth by his neighbours was suggested to me by my accomplished native critic, who knew what, under such circumstances, would probably occur. To have "feet turned backwards," and "to speak through the nose," are supposed by the Hindus to be the characteristics of ghosts!

It was some time before Bhola Náth was left alone with his mother and son. There was too much to say, too much to think of, for any of the three to retire to rest. Day broke as they still sat together outside their little hut. Sibbi and Matrá looked very happy; their minds were too full of the unexpected joy of Bhola Náth's return, to have at that time any room for care or regret. But it was otherwise with Bhola Náth himself. He looked thoughtful and grave.

"Perhaps my father is thinking of the wife and parent whom he misses from our home," reflected Matrá; "those whose faces he never more can behold."