After all it could
never have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding
from time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished
the tale.
"_Beshak_," he said, philosophically. "_Lekin darwaza band hai._
(Without doubt, but the door is shut.) I have heard of this
remembering of previous existences among my people. It is of
course an old tale with us, but, to happen to an Englishman--a
cow-fed _Malechk_--an outcast. By Jove, that is _most_ peculiar!"
"Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day.
Let's think the thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations."
"Does he know that?" said Grish Chunder, quietly, swinging his
legs as he sat on my table. He was speaking in English now.
"He does not know anything. Would I speak to you if he did? Go
on!"
"There is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they will
say you are mad and put it in the papers. Suppose, now, you
prosecute for libel."
"Let's leave that out of the question entirely. Is there any chance of
his being made to speak?"
"There is a chance.
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