fications. He was well-known throughout the length and breadth of Murshidabad as a trained and skilful stick-player—Many Hindus and Mahomedans had met their death at his hands. As to how sharp and infallible he was at his rifle, was written in unmistakable letters on the waters of the Ganges with Foster's blood.
But Ramcharan had still one more qualification, which was more useful than all these, at times of emergency—this was his cunningness. Ramcharan was as sly as a fox. Nevertheless, his devotion to his master and his trustworthiness were unrivalled.
When Ramcharan came to open the door, he thought within himself, "Who is it that knocks at this ungodly hour? Is it the pious hermit? Most likely so. But we have had quite an adventure to-night, and I am not going to open the door at this unearthly hour, till I see who knocks at it."
Ramcharan then noiselessly came up to the entrance and stood there for a while in silence—he was listening to something. He heard two men whispering to each other in a peculiar language—Ramcharan used to call it "Indil mindil"—now people call it "English." At this Ramcharan said within himself, "Wait you devils! If I must open
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