powerful, and self-indulgent than those who laid the foundation of British rule in India. Lawrence Foster was a man of that type. He did not restrain his lust—in those days the word religion was extinct among Englishmen in Bengal. Foster did not even think of consequences—he said within himself, "Now or never"—and made for Bedagram with a palanquin, some porters and a few servants of the factory, fully armed, on the night previous to the day he was to start for Calcutta. On that very night, the inhabitants of Bedagram heard with fear that Chandra Skekhar's house was being looted by Dacoits. Chandra Shekhar was not at home. He had gone to Murshidabad and had not yet returned. The villagers hearing the noise, the shrieks and the reports of guns left their bed, came out and saw that Chandra Shekhar's house was being plundered—there were many torch-lights. No body came forward to the rescue. They saw, from a distance, that the Dacoits, after plundering the house, came out one by one; they also saw, in astonishment, that some porters came out of the house with a palanquin on their shoulders. Its shutters were closed—the Sahib of the Purandarpur factory was himself following
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