’All being ready, one of the four, in a low undertone, gave the “jhirni” (signal),[12] the handkerchiefs were thrown over their necks, and in a few minutes all three—­the Mogul and his servants—­ were dead, and lying in the grave in the usual manner, the head of one at the feet of the one below him.  All the parties they had met on the road belonged to a gang of Jamaldehi Thugs, of the kingdom of Oudh.[13] In despair of being able to win the Mogul’s confidence in the usual way, and determined to have the money and jewels, which they knew he carried with him, they had adopted this plan of disarming him; dug the grave by the side of the road, in the open plain, and made a handsome young Musalman of the party the dead soldier.  The Mogul, being a very stout man, died almost without a struggle, as is usually the case with such; and his two servants made no resistance.’

People of great sensibility, with hearts overcharged with sorrow, often appear cold and callous to those who seem to them to feel no interest in their afflictions.  An instance of this kind I will here mention; it is one of thousands that I have met with in my Indian rambles.  It was mentioned to me one day that an old ’fakir’,[14] who lived in a small hut close by a little shrine on the side of the road near the town of Moradabad, had lately lost his son, poisoned by a party of ‘daturias’, or professional poisoners,[15] that now infest every road throughout India.  I sent for him, and requested him to tell me his story, as I might perhaps be able to trace the murderers.  He did so, and a Persian writer took it down while I listened with all the coldness of a magistrate who wanted merely to learn facts and have nothing whatever to do with feelings.  This is his story literally: 

’I reside in my hut by the side of the road a mile and [a] half from the town, and live upon the bounty of travellers, and the people of the surrounding villages.  About six weeks ago, I was sitting by the side of my shrine after saying prayers, with my only son, about ten years of age, when a man came up with his wife, his son, and his daughter, the one a little older, and the other a little younger than my boy.  They baked and ate their bread near my shrine, and gave me flour enough to make two cakes.  This I prepared and baked.  My boy was hungry, and ate one cake and a half.  I ate only half a one, for I was not hungry.  I had a few days before purchased a new blanket for my boy, and it was hanging in a branch of the tree that shaded the shrine, when these people came.  My son and I soon became stupefied.  I saw him fall asleep, and I soon followed.  I awoke again in the evening, and found myself in a pool of water.  I had sense enough to crawl towards my boy.  I found him still breathing, and I sat by him with his head in my lap, where he soon died.  It was now evening, and I got up, and wandered about all night picking straws—­I know not why.  I was not yet quite sensible.  During the night