acute and penetrating glances at him. The wonderful man wore a loose scarlet; he had long matted hair and a flowing grey beard—he had sacred symbols painted all over his body with the ashes from his sacred altar of sacrificial fire. Foster could not take away his eyes from that imposing spectacle and as if charmed, fixed them upon those of the strange figure, before him. Gradually his mind was absolutely overpowered by the influence of that vision. A little after, his eyes became heavy with sleep and a peculiar hypnotic influence benumbed his limbs. It seemed to Foster that the lips of the wonderful man, before him, were moving, as if, he was speaking something. Gradually, a voice of thunder reached his ears—he heard some one saying,
"I will save you from the threatened punishment. You better answer to what I ask—are you Shaibalini's paramour?"
Foster gazed at the poor distracted Shaibalini and said,
"No, I am not."
Every one present there distinctly heard Foster saying, "No, I am not." That mysterious voice, resembling a roaring thunder, was again heard.
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