“Listen!” said the other, again pointing to the Indian, who, in the agitation of his dream, recommenced talking in abrupt sentences; “listen! he is repeating the answers of the traveller, when we told him he must die, or serve with us on Thuggee.  His mind is still impressed—­deeply impressed—­with those words.”

And, in fact, the Indian repeated aloud in his sleep, a sort of mysterious dialogue, of which he himself supplied both questions and answers.

“‘Traveller,’ said he, in a voice broken by sudden pauses, ’why that black mark on your forehead, stretching from one temple to the other?  It is a mark of doom and your look is sad as death.  Have you been a victim?  Come with us; Kallee will avenge you.  You have suffered?’—­’Yes, I have greatly suffered.’—­’For a long time?’—­’Yes, for a very long time.’—­’You suffer even now?’—­’Yes, even now.’—­What do you reserve for those who injure you?’—­’My pity.’—­’Will you not render blow for blow?’—­’I will return love for hate.’—­’Who are you, then, that render good for evil?’—­’I am one who loves, and suffers, and forgives.’”

“Brother, do you hear?” said the negro to Faringhea; “he has not forgotten the words of the traveller before his death.”

“The vision follows him.  Listen! he will speak again.  How pale he is!” Still under the influence of his dream, the Indian continued: 

“’Traveller, we are three; we are brave; we have your life in our hands—­you have seen us sacrifice to the good work.  Be one of us, or die—­die—­die!  Oh, that look!  Not thus—­do not look at me thus!’” As he uttered these last words, the Indian made a sudden movement, as if to keep off some approaching object, and awoke with a start.  Then, passing his hand over his moist forehead, he looked round him with a bewildered eye.

“What! again this dream, brother?” said Faringhea.  “For a bold hunter of men, you have a weak head.  Luckily, you have a strong heart and arm.”

The other remained a moment silent, his face buried in his hands; then he replied:  “It is long since I last dreamed of that traveller.”

“Is he not dead?” said Faringhea, shrugging his shoulders.  “Did you not yourself throw the cord around his neck?”

“Yes,” replied the Indian shuddering.

“Did we not dig his grave by the side of Colonel Kennedy’s?  Did we not bury him with the English butcher, under the sand and the rushes?” said the negro.

“Yes, we dug his grave,” said the Indian, trembling; “and yet, only a year ago, I was seated one evening at the gate of Bombay, waiting for one of our brothers—­the sun was setting behind the pagoda, to the right of the little hill—­the scene is all before me now—­I was seated under a figtree—­when I heard a slow, firm, even step, and, as I turned round my head—­I saw him—­coming out of the town.”

“A vision,” said the negro; “always the same vision!”

“A vision,” added Faringhea, “or a vague resemblance.”