a pile of maize straw, a man who was evidently their chief. He rose and
we exchanged salaams.

"'What is your name, sahib?' he asked in Mahratta.

"'Hastings--Lieutenant Hastings,' I said. 'And yours?'

"'Sivajee Punt!' he said.

"This was bad. I had fallen into the hands of the most troublesome,
most ruthless, and most famous of the Dacoit leaders. Over and over
again he had been hotly chased, but had always managed to get away; and
when I last heard anything of what was going on four or five troops of
native police were scouring the country after him. He gave an order
which I did not understand, and a wretched Bombay writer, I suppose a
clerk of some money-lender, was dragged forward. Sivajee Punt spoke to
him for some time, and the fellow then told me in English that I was to
write at once to the officer commanding the troops, telling him that I
was in his hands, and should be put to death directly he was attacked.

"'Ask him,' I said, 'if he will take any sum of money to let me go?'

"Sivajee shook his head very decidedly.

"A piece of paper was put before me, and a pen and ink, and I wrote as I
had been ordered, adding, however, in French, that I had brought myself
into my present position by my own folly, and would take my chance, for
I well knew the importance which Government attached to Sivajee's
capture. I read out loud all that I had written in English, and the
interpreter translated it. Then the paper was folded and I addressed it,