Let
him cease his savage activities. Otherwise, his next tiger-encounter
shall result in his severe wounds, followed by six months of deathly
sickness. He shall then forsake his former ways and become a monk."'
"This tale did not impress me. I considered that Father had been
the credulous victim of a deluded fanatic."
The Tiger Swami made this confession with an impatient gesture, as
though at some stupidity. Grimly silent for a long time, he seemed
oblivious of our presence. When he took up the dangling thread of
his narrative, it was suddenly, with subdued voice.
"Not long after Father's warning, I visited the capital city of
Cooch Behar. The picturesque territory was new to me, and I expected
a restful change. As usual everywhere, a curious crowd followed me
on the streets. I would catch bits of whispered comment:
"'This is the man who fights wild tigers.'
"'Has he legs, or tree-trunks?'
"'Look at his face! He must be an incarnation of the king of tigers
himself!'
"You know how village urchins function like final editions of a
newspaper! With what speed do the even-later speech-bulletins of
the women circulate from house to house! Within a few hours, the
whole city was in a state of excitement over my presence.
"I was relaxing quietly in the evening, when I heard the hoofbeats
of galloping horses. They stopped in front of my dwelling place.
In came a number of tall, turbaned policemen.
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