LITMIR.BIZ

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the talk. They are all mad together. What have Messua and her man to do with me that they should be put in a trap; and what is all this talk about the Red Flower? I must look to this. Whatever they would do to Messua they will not do till Buldeo returns. And so—" Mowgli thought hard, with his fingers playing round the haft of the skinning-knife, while Buldeo and the charcoal-burners went off very valiantly in single file.

      "I am going hot-foot back to the Man-Pack," Mowgli said at last.

      "And those?" said Gray Brother, looking hungrily after the brown backs of the charcoal-burners.

      "Sing them home," said Mowgli with a grin; "I do not wish them to be at the village gates till it is dark. Can ye hold them?"

      Gray Brother bared his white teeth in contempt. "We can head them round and round in circles like tethered goats—if I know Man."

      "That I do not need. Sing to them a little, lest they be lonely on the road, and, Gray Brother, the song need not be of the sweetest. Go with them, Bagheera, and help make that song. When the night is shut down, meet me by the village—Gray Brother knows the place."

      "It is no light hunting to work for a Man-cub. When shall I sleep?" said Bagheera, yawning, though his eyes showed that he was delighted with the amusement. "Me to sing to naked men! But let us try."

      He lowered his head so that the sound would travel, and cried a long, long, "Good hunting"—a midnight call in the afternoon, which was quite awful enough to begin with. Mowgli heard it rumble, and rise, and fall, and die off in a creepy sort of whine behind him, and laughed to himself as he ran through the Jungle. He could see the charcoal-burners huddled in a knot; old Buldeo's gun-barrel waving, like a banana-leaf, to every point of the compass at once. Then Gray Brother gave the Ya-la-hi! Yalaha! call for the buck-driving, when the Pack drives the nilghai, the big blue cow, before them, and it seemed to come from the very ends of the earth, nearer, and nearer, and nearer, till it ended in a shriek snapped off short. The other three answered, till even Mowgli could have vowed that the full Pack was in full cry, and then they all broke into the magnificent Morning-song in the Jungle, with every turn, and flourish, and grace-note, that a deep-mouthed wolf of the Pack knows. This is a rough rendering of the song, but you must imagine what it sounds like when it breaks the afternoon hush of the Jungle:

      One moment past our bodies cast

       No shadow on the plain;

       Now clear and black they stride our track,

       And we run home again.

       In morning hush, each rock and bush

       Stands hard, and high, and raw:

       Then give the Call: "Good rest to all That keep the Jungle Law!

      Now horn and pelt our peoples melt

       In covert to abide;

       Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill

       Our Jungle Barons glide.

       Now, stark and plain, Man's oxen strain,

       That draw the new-yoked plow;

       Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red

       Above the lit talao.

      Ho! Get to lair! The sun's aflare

       Behind the breathing grass:

       And creaking through the young bamboo

       The warning whispers pass.

       By day made strange, the woods we range

       With blinking eyes we scan;

       While down the skies the wild duck cries:

       "The Day—the Day to Man!"

      The dew is dried that drenched our hide,

       Or washed about our way;

       And where we drank, the puddled bank

       Is crisping into clay.

       The traitor Dark gives up each mark

       Of stretched or hooded claw;

       Then hear the Call: "Good rest to all That keep the Jungle Law!"

      But no translation can give the effect of it, or the yelping scorn the Four threw into every word of it, as they heard the trees crash when the men hastily climbed up into the branches, and Buldeo began repeating incantations and charms. Then they lay down and slept, for, like all who live by their own exertions, they were of a methodical cast of mind; and no one can work well without sleep.

      Meantime, Mowgli was putting the miles behind him, nine to the hour, swinging on, delighted to find himself so fit after all his cramped months among men. The one idea in his head was to get Messua and her husband out of the trap, whatever it was; for he had a natural mistrust of traps. Later on, he promised himself, he would pay his debts to the village at large.

      It was at twilight when he saw the well-remembered grazing-grounds, and the dhak-tree where Gray Brother had waited for him on the morning that he killed Shere Khan. Angry as he was at the whole breed and community of Man, something jumped up in his throat and made him catch his breath when he looked at the village roofs. He noticed that every one had come in from the fields unusually early, and that, instead of getting to their evening cooking, they gathered in a crowd under the village tree, and chattered, and shouted.

      "Men must always be making traps for men, or they are not content," said Mowgli. "Last night it was Mowgli—but that night seems many Rains ago. To-night it is Messua and her man. To-morrow, and for very many nights after, it will be Mowgli's turn again."

      He crept along outside the wall till he came to Messua's hut, and looked through the window into the room. There lay Messua, gagged, and bound hand and foot, breathing hard, and groaning: her husband was tied to the gaily painted bedstead. The door of the hut that opened into the street was shut fast, and three or four people were sitting with their backs to it.

      Mowgli knew the manners and customs of the villagers very fairly. He argued that so long as they could eat, and talk, and smoke, they would not do anything else; but as soon as they had fed they would begin to be dangerous. Buldeo would be coming in before long, and if his escort had done its duty, Buldeo would have a very interesting tale to tell. So he went in through the window, and, stooping over the man and the woman, cut their thongs, pulling out the gags, and looked round the hut for some milk.

      Messua was half wild with pain and fear (she had been beaten and stoned all the morning), and Mowgli put his hand over her mouth just in time to stop a scream. Her husband was only bewildered and angry, and sat picking dust and things out of his torn beard.

      "I knew—I knew he would come," Messua sobbed at last. "Now do I know that he is my son!" and she hugged Mowgli to her heart. Up to that time Mowgli had been perfectly steady, but now he began to tremble all over, and that surprised him immensely.

      "Why are these thongs? Why have they tied thee?" he asked, after a pause.

      "To be put to the death for making a son of thee—what else?" said the man, sullenly. "Look! I bleed."

      Messua said nothing, but it was at her wounds that Mowgli looked, and they heard him grit his teeth when he saw the blood.

      "Whose work is this?" said he. "There is a price to pay."

      "The work of all the village. I was too rich. I had too many cattle. Therefore she and I are witches, because we gave thee shelter."

      "I do not understand. Let Messua tell the tale."

      "I gave thee milk, Nathoo; dost thou remember?" Messua said timidly. "Because thou wast my son, whom the tiger took, and because I loved thee very dearly. They said that I was thy mother, the mother of a devil, and therefore worthy of death."

      "And what is a devil?" said Mowgli. "Death I have seen."

      The man looked up gloomily, but Messua laughed. "See!" she said to her husband, "I knew—I said that he was no sorcerer. He is my son—my son!"

      "Son

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