CHAPTER VII.

The Three "Bihistis."

"I AM afraid that your miser has many prototypes in real life," observed Percival, when I paused. "Many a man has sold his life for gold."

"And his soul also," said Lady Mar. "How few realize the depth of truth contained in the lines:"

"'The greatest evil we can fear Is—to possess our portion here!'"

After a little more conversation on the subject, Lady Mar was called upon for her story, which she thus began:

"I suppose that I need hardly preface my little tale by telling you what bihistis are—Oriental water-carriers, bending beneath the weight of their mushaks (skins filled with water): these have been made so familiar by pictures, even to those who have never been, like myself, in India."

"I knew nothing about mushaks in my boyhood," observed Percival; "so our Lord's words about old and new bottles were to me an insoluble puzzle; until some one in a Bible-class mentioned that Eastern bottles were skins, of which old, worn ones would be liable to burst if filled with new, fermenting wine."

"What does the word bihisti mean?" I enquired. "Probably it is some combination of 'carry' and 'water.'"

"No, the title is a curious one," replied Lady Mar, "and conveys a poetical idea."

"Bihisti means 'one of Paradise,' and is probably given to the humble supplier of one of our first blessings, from water being regarded in the East as emphatically 'the gift of God.' 'Bihisti' is a beautiful name bestowed on an honest, hard-working class, who bear a heavy burden, in order to relieve the thirst of others in a dry and weary land."

"These bihistis are often seen in India filling their mushaks at a well, or pouring water from them at railway stations when the train stops for a few minutes. Bihistis enter even the guarded zenanas to perform their needful task of filling earthen jars; though the appearance of the poor water-carrier sometimes causes a stampede amongst the ladies."

"I was startled once, when showing my album to several bibis,* by their suddenly springing to their feet and running away, leaving me alone to encounter the danger, whatever it might be. Was it a mad dog or a tiger that had entered the zenana? No; only a quiet, sober-looking bihisti, with his eyes on the ground, and his burden on his back, and his hand on the mouth of his mushak, to guide its contents into the jars placed ready to receive them."

* Ladies.

"And now for my story."

"Outside a serai (native inn) sat in the moonlight four men, smoking their hookahs, and having one of those long talks which natives of the East delight in, and sometimes prolong far into the night. One of the most striking figures in the group was that of a venerable Sikh, whose hair and beard, never touched by razor, were now of silvery whiteness. The other men were of various nationalities, but used Urdu as a tongue common to all."

"The first speaker, a Persian, was giving a flowery account of his own country, which none of the others had ever seen. Such horses, such fruits, such cities, he described—that to hear him, one might think that Persia, of all the lands of earth, was the most beautiful and most blest."

"And our men are unmatched for size and strength," pursued the speaker, using a good deal of gesticulation. "I am one of a family of ten sons; and not one of my brothers but is taller and stronger than I am. What would you say to our bihisti? He is some eight feet in height, and carries a mushak made of the hide of an ox, which, when full, five of your ordinary men could not lift!"

"Wah! Wah!" exclaimed the listeners.

The sage old Sikh rather incredulously shook his head, and muttered, "I should like to see such a bihisti."

Then spake a fine tall Afghan. "I could tell you of a bihisti," he said, "compared to whom your bihisti is but an emmet. I know one who can carry a mushak big as a mountain, and white as the snows on the Himalayas. This water-carrier can travel thousands of miles without stopping or feeling weary, sometimes whistling, and sometimes howling as he goes."

"Wah! Wah!" cried those around him.

But the Persian rather angrily said, "I will never believe such a pack of lies!"

"Oh, brother," said the old Sikh smiling, "there is more truth in the Afghan's tale than in thine. Look yonder," he continued, as a white cloud passed over the face of the moon, "and listen to the rushing blast which is shaking the leaves of yon palms. The wind is the mighty bihisti whom the great Creator employs to bear swiftly the huge white mushaks which convey His gift of rain. The words of the Pathan are not the words of folly."

"Thou art wise, O father!" said the youngest man in the group, who had hitherto spoken but little. "Now listen whilst I tell of a third bihisti; not tall like the first, nor strong like the second, but bearing a more wonderful mushak than either. This mushak is small, not longer than my hand; it is very old too, and it is carried by a very feeble man."

"Useless! Good for nothing!" exclaimed the Persian.

"Listen before you say so. In this mushak is water of such wonderful virtue, that if but a few drops fall on good soil, a spring of surpassing sweetness bursts forth, sometimes spreading and spreading: till first a brook; then a wide stream; then a glorious river—appears. The most learned cannot calculate, nor ages on ages limit, the effects of a few living drops from that blessed mushak!"

The Persian and Afghan uttered exclamations of surprise; but a thoughtful inquiring look was on the face of the aged Sikh.

"Where can that mushak be seen?" he enquired.

"Here," replied the Bengali; and he drew a Bible from his vest. "This book contains the Word of God; and its contents, when received with faith, are spirit and life."

"It is the Christian's Scriptures," said the old Sikh, raising his hand to his brow in token of respect.

"Let me pour forth some drops of the living water," said the native evangelist; "as the moonlight is so bright that I can, by it, read a little from the pages which I know and love so well."

No one made any objection: the Persian listened with curiosity, and the Afghan with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy words fell like the rain from Heaven. This was not the first time that he had drunk from the precious mushak of inspired Truth, and its water became to him as a stream of life which should never fail him till time should be lost in eternity.

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