mild air of benevolence which distinguished that excellent man (he
was torn to pieces by wild horses the year after, on account of a
difference with Holkar), he came to my bedside and, taking gently
my hand, said, "Life and death, my son, are not ours. Strength is
deceitful, valour is unavailing, fame is only wind--the nightingale
sings of the rose all night--where is the rose in the morning?
Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost. The rose makes remarks
regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird?
Pena-bekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted, and roasted! Who
knows how misfortune comes? It has come to Gahagan Gujputi!"

"It is well," said I, stoutly, and in the Malay language. "Gahagan
Gujputi will bear it like a man."

"No doubt--like a wise man and a brave one; but there is no lane so
long to which there is not a turning, no night so black to which
there comes not a morning. Icy winter is followed by merry
springtime--grief is often succeeded by joy."

"Interpret, O riddler!" said I; "Gahagan Khan is no reader of
puzzles--no prating mollah. Gujputi loves not words, but swords."

"Listen then, O Gujputi: you are in Holkar's power."

"I know it."

"You will die by the most horrible tortures to-morrow morning."

"I dare say."