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Tagore, Rabindranath, 1861-1941

"The Hungry Stones and Other Stories"

My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held up a
fringe of the screen. I could catch a glimpse of a part of the room
spread with a Persian carpet--some one was sitting inside on a bed--I
could not see her, but only caught a glimpse of two exquisite feet in
gold-embroidered slippers, hanging out from loose saffron-coloured
paijamas and placed idly on the orange-coloured velvet carpet. On one
side there was a bluish crystal tray on which a few apples, pears,
oranges, and bunches of grapes in plenty, two small cups and a gold-
tinted decanter were evidently waiting the guest. A fragrant
intoxicating vapour, issuing from a strange sort of incense that burned
within, almost overpowered my senses.
As with trembling heart I made an attempt to step across the
outstretched legs of the eunuch, he woke up suddenly with a start, and
the sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang on the marble floor. A
terrific scream made me jump, and I saw I was sitting on that camp-
bedstead of mine sweating heavily; and the crescent moon looked pale in
the morning light like a weary sleepless patient at dawn; and our crazy
Meher Ali was crying out, as is his daily custom, "Stand back! Stand
back!!" while he went along the lonely road.


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