Twenty or thirty monkeys bounded away to bring him nuts and wild pawpaws.  But they fell to fighting on the road, and it was too much trouble to go back with what was left of the fruit.  Mowgli was sore and angry as well as hungry, and he roamed through the empty city giving the Strangers’ Hunting Call from time to time, but no one answered him, and Mowgli felt that he had reached a very bad place indeed.  “All that Baloo has said about the Bandar-log is true,” he thought to himself.  “They have no Law, no Hunting Call, and no leaders—­nothing but foolish words and little picking thievish hands.  So if I am starved or killed here, it will be all my own fault.  But I must try to return to my own jungle.  Baloo will surely beat me, but that is better than chasing silly rose leaves with the Bandar-log.”

No sooner had he walked to the city wall than the monkeys pulled him back, telling him that he did not know how happy he was, and pinching him to make him grateful.  He set his teeth and said nothing, but went with the shouting monkeys to a terrace above the red sandstone reservoirs that were half-full of rain water.  There was a ruined summer-house of white marble in the center of the terrace, built for queens dead a hundred years ago.  The domed roof had half fallen in and blocked up the underground passage from the palace by which the queens used to enter.  But the walls were made of screens of marble tracery—­beautiful milk-white fretwork, set with agates and cornelians and jasper and lapis lazuli, and as the moon came up behind the hill it shone through the open work, casting shadows on the ground like black velvet embroidery.  Sore, sleepy, and hungry as he was, Mowgli could not help laughing when the Bandar-log began, twenty at a time, to tell him how great and wise and strong and gentle they were, and how foolish he was to wish to leave them.  “We are great.  We are free.  We are wonderful.  We are the most wonderful people in all the jungle!  We all say so, and so it must be true,” they shouted.  “Now as you are a new listener and can carry our words back to the Jungle-People so that they may notice us in future, we will tell you all about our most excellent selves.”  Mowgli made no objection, and the monkeys gathered by hundreds and hundreds on the terrace to listen to their own speakers singing the praises of the Bandar-log, and whenever a speaker stopped for want of breath they would all shout together:  “This is true; we all say so.”  Mowgli nodded and blinked, and said “Yes” when they asked him a question, and his head spun with the noise.  “Tabaqui the Jackal must have bitten all these people,” he said to himself, “and now they have madness.  Certainly this is dewanee, the madness.  Do they never go to sleep?  Now there is a cloud coming to cover that moon.  If it were only a big enough cloud I might try to run away in the darkness.  But I am tired.”

That same cloud was being watched by two good friends in the ruined ditch below the city wall, for Bagheera and Kaa, knowing well how dangerous the Monkey-People were in large numbers, did not wish to run any risks.  The monkeys never fight unless they are a hundred to one, and few in the jungle care for those odds.