THE SLAVE GIRL OF AGRA
"Thou art welcome to take her home, Noren, when thou hast learnt better manners. I will not leave her to-night with an unmannerly lad."
"Stand back, thou low-born man, and make room for one who is worthier to take her side."
The strong frame of Sirish shook under this fresh insult, and he stood and glared at Noren. But he controlled himself and deigned no reply. He put his arm tenderly round the frightened girl and turned homewards.
This was more than Noren could stand. Maddened by the cool contempt of Sirish, he rushed at him and attacked him with all his might. Hemlata shrieked in alarm. Sirish was more than a match for Noren; he held the infuriated boy by the waist, lifted him like a feather, and flung him on the sands, helpless and panting.
Stung with shame at this discomfiture before the eyes of the girl, and covered with sand and earth, Noren picked up a stone and flung it at Sirish. It hit him just over his right eye and made a deep cut. Sirish sat down on the sands and tried to staunch the blood with his cloth. Hemlata was a silent witness. She cast one look of agony and reproach at the misbehaving boy, and her eyes glistened with tears. She then ran to the riverside and moistened her saree, and came back to Sirish to wash away the blood.
Sirish was not seriously hurt, but the blood was still trickling down his face as he slowly arose.
"Come home, Hemlata," he softly said; "it is late, and we must go home." They walked homewards, arm-in-arm, without casting a look on Noren.
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