Tlumtea,—"She shall not swallow you," he said. Presently they wrapped themselves up in the mattress, and went to sleep. Presently Tonulawki returned from the field, carrying a load of arum leaves for the pig's food. At the door she cried,—"Tlumtea, just open the door for me," said she. But Tlumtea did not want to open it. They just laughed at her. Then Tonulawki cried,—"Open it for me! Who is it that you are laughing away with on the bed?" Suddenly she pushed down the door. Then they cut down Tonulawki and killed her, and from her breasts there grew up in their garden a saishu tree. Then Tlumtea was very proud of his wife, and he said to every one,—"If my wife comes and asks for leaves to wrap up rice in, for the road, don't say you have any, even though you really have," said he. Then he sent her to get some leaves to wrap up the rice in, but no one said,—"I have some." She went through the whole village, but did not get a single one. Then her husband said,—"Just take the leaves of the saishu which is in our garden," said he. She was about to take one; she plucked at it, but could not pluck it off, so she tried to bite it off, but the saishu cut her tongue. She died. It is ended."
The object of sending his wife to fetch the leaves, and telling every one not to give them to her, was to ensure every one in the village seeing her and having an opportunity of admiring her. The casual way in which Tonulawki is introduced is very characteristic of the Lushais. Many a time have I been driven to desperation, when trying a case, by the sudden appearance of a new character quite at the end of the story, who, on inquiry, turns out to be the most important of the whole lot. Sometimes two Lushais would come and wrangle for an hour about a gyal; after much trouble I would arrive at a decision, and the parties would go off, but return and ask,—"What is to be done with the girl?" "What girl?" "Why the girl that the case was about." "But you never
