e young Musalman of the party the dead
soldier. The Mogul, being a very stout man, died almost without a
struggle, as is usually the case with such; and his two servants made
no resistance.'

People of great sensibility, with hearts overcharged with sorrow,
often appear cold and callous to those who seem to them to feel no
interest in their afflictions. An instance of this kind I will here
mention; it is one of thousands that I have met with in my Indian
rambles. It was mentioned to me one day that an old 'fakir',[14] who
lived in a small hut close by a little shrine on the side of the road
near the town of Moradabad, had lately lost his son, poisoned by a
party of 'daturias', or professional poisoners,[15] that now infest
every road throughout India. I sent for him, and requested him to
tell me his story, as I might perhaps be able to trace the murderers.
He did so, and a Persian writer took it down while I listened with
all the coldness of a magistrate who wanted merely to learn facts and
have nothing whatever to do with feelings. This is his story
literally:

'I reside in my hut by the side of the road a mile and [a] half from
the town, and live upon the bounty of travellers, and the people of
the surrounding villages. About six weeks ago, I was sitting by the
side of my shrine after saying prayers, with my only son, about ten
years of age, when a man came up with his wife, his son, and his
daughter, the one a little older, and the other a little younger than
my boy. They baked and ate their bread near my shrine, and gave me
flour enough to make two cakes. This I prepared and baked. My boy was
hungry, and ate one cake and a half. I ate only half a one, for I was
not hungry. I had a few days before purchased a new blanket for my
boy, and it was hanging in a branch of the tree that shaded the
shrine, when these people came. My son and I soon became stupefied. I
saw him fall asleep, and I soon followed. I awoke again in the
evening, and found myself in a pool of water. I had sense enough to
crawl towards my boy. I found him still breathing, and I sat by him
with his head in my lap, where he soon died. It was now evening, and
I got up, and wandered about all night picking straws--I know not
why. I was not yet quite sensible. During the night the wolves ate my
poor boy. I heard this from travellers, and went and gathered up his
bones and buried them in the shrine. I did not quite recover till the
third day, when I foun