Tales of Destiny | Page 7

of the little maid of Jhalnagor so that her father's life might later on be saved. But none can read the future, so that we are all blindly doing the things of to-day without knowing their real bearing on the things of a far-away to-morrow. And one man can make or mar the happiness of another man, even though their lives be separated by hundreds of leagues in space or hundreds of years in time."
"In your mind doubtless is some tale to illustrate the truth of what you teach," remarked the astrologer, with a shrewd uplifting of his eyebrows. "The stars can help us to read the future, as I can prove to you by a story of actual experience. But before I proceed to my narrative, pray, friend, let us hear from you."
"Gladly," assented the tax-collector. "The story of this noble Rajput has brought to memory an incident in my own life many years ago, likewise serving to show that the gods prepare long years ahead for the working out of each particular man's destiny. Listen:
* * * * *
"As a youth I was a keeper of accounts in the service of a rich zemindar, whose estate lay in the Country of the Five Rivers. He was a usurer as well as a landowner, as had been his fathers before him for many generations. So in his castle was an accumulation of great stores of wealth--gold and silver and precious stones, cloth of gold, silks, brocades, and muslins, ivory and amber, camphor, spices, dye stuffs, and other merchandise of divers kinds."
The Afghan general stirred, and the scabbard of his sword rattled on the floor as, raising himself from his elbow that rested on a cushion, he sat up and assumed an attitude of keen attention.
"Where is this place?" he asked, a wolfish gleam in his eyes, and his lips curved to a smile that revealed, under the black, curled moustache, the white gleam of sharp-pointed teeth.
The story-teller also smiled, knowingly, and raised a deprecatory hand.
"Nay, friend, this zemindar, my first master, was not fated to be relieved of his treasure, as my story will tell, even though a skilful plot had been laid for his spoliation. Which is the very point of my tale, although I may seem to come to it by a roundabout way of telling."
The Afghan sank back on his cushion, but his gaze remained riveted on his narrator's face.
"One day I was seated in my home, casting up my books of account, for I had only that morning completed the taking of taxes from the crops of the rayats, the tenants of my lord. All of a sudden a white-robed figure entered the doorway and threw himself prostrate before me. When at last the face was raised I recognized the dhobi of the village that nestled under the hill on which was perched the castle of the zemindar.
"'O thou washer of clothes,' I asked, 'what is thy plaint?'
"'Protector of the poor,' replied my visitor, 'behold my bandaged feet, beaten with rods until they are swollen and torn.'
"I looked, as requested, and saw the blood-stains soaked through the wrappings of linen.
"'Thou art an honest and a peaceful man, Bhagwan. Why this cruel punishment?'
"'I know not, indeed. But I have come to thee, because I have endured the wrong at the hands of thy master.'
"'Tell me thy story.'
"'As you have said, O my protector,' began the dhobi, assuming a sitting posture and spreading the folds of his loose-flowing cotton garment over his bandaged feet, 'I am an honest man. And it is for that very reason I have suffered. Yesterday, among the apparel I received from the home of the zemindar to be made clean and white was the bodice of a woman, and tied in one corner of this piece of raiment was a ring set with bright red stones that gleamed as if they were aflame. Straightway I returned to the palace of the zemindar, and, entering the audience chamber where, as is his wont at that particular hour each day, he was seated receiving the complaints of the oppressed, did my humble obeisance, and then placed in his hand the jewel I had discovered. He asked me where I had found it, and when I replied truthfully, his eyes flashed with anger, and his voice thundered at me in rebuke. Although I had done no wrong, but rather a virtuous deed, I implored for pardon. But in vain. My mind grew confused, and the next thing I remember was the sharp cut of bamboo rods upon the soles of my feet. I was in a small vaulted chamber, bound to a wooden bench, surrounded by the zemindar's soldiers, and powerless except to scream out in the agony of each blow. Thirty strokes were counted,