which had covered almost the whole of my face--"I AM NOT THY
HUSBAND--I am the slayer of elephants, the world-renowned GAHAGAN!"

As I said this, and as the long ringlets of red hair fell over my
shoulders (contrasting strangely with my dyed face and beard), I
formed one of the finest pictures that can possibly be conceived,
and I recommend it as a subject to Mr. Heath, for the next "Book of
Beauty."

"Wretch!" said she, "what wouldst thou?"

"You black-faced fiend," said I, "raise but your voice, and you are
dead!"

"And afterwards," said she, "do you suppose that YOU can escape?
The torments of hell are not so terrible as the tortures that
Holkar will invent for thee."

"Tortures, madam?" answered I, coolly. "Fiddlesticks! You will
neither betray me, nor will I be put to the torture: on the
contrary, you will give me your best jewels and facilitate my
escape to the fort. Don't grind your teeth and swear at me.
Listen, madam: you know this dress and these arms;--they are the
arms of your husband, Bobbachy Bahawder--MY PRISONER. He now lies
in yonder fort, and if I do not return before daylight, at sunrise
he dies: and then, when they send his corpse back to Holkar, what
will you, his WIDOW, do?

"Oh!" said she, shuddering, "spare me, spare me!"