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He was seated at a table on the verandah of the bungalow which he shared with his brother subaltern in the small military cantonment near Rohar, the capital of the Native State of Mandha in the west of India.
Mandha, the Kakravartin, when the heavens rained yellow gold, and he ruled all within the seas, yet sighed after the domain of the thirty-three heavens; dividing with Sakra his seat, and so through the power of this lust he died; Nung-Sha, whilst practising austerities, got power to rule the thirty-three heavenly abodes, but from lust he became proud and supercilious; the Rishi whilst stepping into his chariot, through carelessness in his gait, fell down into the midst of the serpent pit.
He was to leave at dawn and drive sixty miles in a tonga a two-wheeled native conveyance drawn by a pair of ponies to a village called Basedi on the shores of a narrow gulf or deep inlet of the sea which formed the eastern boundary of the State of Mandha. Here he would have to spend the night in a dâk-bungalow or rest-house and cross the water in a steam-launch next morning.
For he and his companion were going as the guests of the Maharajah of Mandha for a day's pigsticking, as hunting the wild boar is termed in India. He had finished his meal and lit a cheroot before Wargrave came yawning on to the verandah. "Sorry for being so lazy, old chap," said the newcomer. "But a year's leave in England gets one out of the habit of early rising."
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