and showed me the ancient Achaya Bat, or sacred tree-trunk, which its
custodians declare to be still living, although more than two thousand
years old. Presently we came to a spot under one of the citadel towers
where a feeble ooze of water appeared.

"Behold," said my friend, "the third of the Triveni rivers! This is
the river Saravasti. You must know that once upon a time, Saravasti,
goddess of learning, was tripping along fresh from the hills to the
west of Yamuna (the Jumna), bearing in her hand a book. Presently she
entered the sandy country, when on a sudden a great press of frightful
demons uprose, and so terrified her that in the absence of other
refuge she sank into the earth. Here she reappears. So the Hindus
fable."

On our return to our quarters we passed a verandah where an old
pedagogue was teaching a lot of young Mussulmans the accidence
of Oordoo, a process which he accomplished much as the "singing
geography" man used to impart instruction in the olden days when I was
a boy--to wit, by causing the pupils to sing in unison the A, B,
C. Occasionally, too, the little, queer-looking chaps squatted
tailor-wise on the floor would take a turn at writing the Arabic
character on their slates. A friendly hookah in the midst of the
group betrayed the manner in which the wise man solaced the labors of
education.

On the next day, as our indigo-planter came to drive us to the Gardens
of Chusru, he said, "An English friend of mine who is living in the
Moffussil--the Moffussil is anywhere _not_ in Calcutta, Bombay or
Madras--not far from Patna has just written me that word has been
brought from one of the Sontal villages concerning the depredations of