“True,” said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful: 

“And the cholera,” resumed the Indian, “only travelled its five or six leagues a day—­a man’s tramp—­never appeared in two places at once—­but swept on slowly, steadily,—­even as a man proceeds.”

At the mention of this strange coincidence, the Hindoo’s companions looked at each other in amazement.  After a silence of some minutes, the awe-struck negro said to the last speaker:  “So you think that this man—­”

“I think that this man, whom we killed, restored to life by some infernal divinity, has been commissioned to bear this terrible scourge over the earth, and to scatter round his steps that death, from which he is himself secure.  Remember!” added the Indian, with gloomy enthusiasm, “this awful wayfarer passed through Java—­the cholera wasted Java.  He passed through Bombay—­the cholera wasted Bombay.  He went towards the north—­the cholera wasted the north.”

So saying, the Indian fell into a profound reverie.  The negro and Faringhea were seized with gloomy astonishment.

The Indian spoke the truth as to the mysterious march (still unexplained) of that fearful malady, which has never been known to travel more than five or six leagues a day, or to appear simultaneously in two spots.  Nothing can be more curious, than to trace out, on the maps prepared at the period in question, the slow, progressive course of this travelling pestilence, which offers to the astonished eye all the capricious incidents of a tourist’s journey.  Passing this way rather than that—­selecting provinces in a country—­towns in a province—­one quarter in a town—­one street in a quarter—­one house in a street—­having its place of residence and repose, and then continuing its slow, mysterious, fear inspiring march.

The words of the Hindoo, by drawing attention to these dreadful eccentricities, made a strong impression upon the minds of the negro and Faringhea—­wild natures, brought by horrible doctrines to the monomania of murder.

Yes—­for this also is an established fact—­there have been in India members of an abominable community, who killed without motive, without passion—­killed for the sake of killing—­for the pleasure of murder—­to substitute death for life—­to make of a living man a corpse, as they have themselves declared in one of their examinations.

The mind loses itself in the attempt to penetrate the causes of these monstrous phenomena.  By what incredible series of events, have men been induced to devote themselves to this priesthood of destruction?  Without doubt, such a religion could only flourish in countries given up, like India, to the most atrocious slavery, and to the most merciless iniquity of man to man.

Such a creed!—­is it not the hate of exasperated humanity, wound up to its highest pitch by oppression?—­May not this homicidal sect, whose origin is lost in the night of ages, have been perpetuated in these regions, as the only possible protest of slavery against despotism?  May not an inscrutable wisdom have here made Phansegars, even as are made tigers and serpents?