onel, stretched on the sand, amused himself by
throwing stones into the water. Narayan sat motionless, with his hands
round his knees, plunged as usual in the mute contemplation of Gulab
Lal-Sing. Mr. Y---- sketched hurriedly and diligently, only raising his
head from time to time to glance at the opposite shore, and knitting his
brow in a preoccupied way. The Takur went on smoking, and as for me, I
sat on my folding chair, looking lazily at everything round me, till my
eyes rested on Gulab-Sing, and were fixed, as if by a spell.

"Who and what is this mysterious Hindu?" I wondered in my uncertain
thoughts. "Who is this man, who unites in himself two such distinct
personalities: the one exterior, kept up for strangers, for the orld in
general, the other interior, moral and spiritual, shown only to a few
intimate friends? But even these intimate friends do they know much
beyond what is generally known? And what do they know? They see in him a
Hindu who differs very little from the rest of educated natives, perhaps
only in his perfect contempt for the social conventions of India and the
demands of Western civilization.... And that is all--unless I add that
he is known in Central India as a sufficiently wealthy man, and a Takur,
a feudal chieftain of a Raj, one of the hundreds of similar Rajes.
Besides, he is a true friend of ours, who offered us his protection
in our travels and volunteered to play the mediator between us and the
suspicious, uncommunicative Hindus. Beyond all this, we know absolutely
nothing about him. It is true, though, that I know a little more than
the others; but I have promised silence, and silent I shall be. But the
little I know is so strange, so unusual, that it is more like a dream
than a reality."

A good while ago, more than twenty-seven years, I met him in the house
of a stranger in England, whither he came in the company of a certain
dethroned Indian prince. Then our acquaintance was limited to two
conversations; their unexpectedness, their gravity, and even severity,
produced a strong impression on me then; but, in the course of time,
like many other things, they sank into oblivion and Lethe. About seven
years ago he wrote to me to America, reminding me of our conversation
and of a certain promise I had made. Now we saw each other once more in
India, his own country, and I failed to see any change wrought in his
appearance by all these long years. I was, and looked, quite young, when
I fir