glistening on the ripples; they have now grown bigger than before; on them the geese are dancing along, the earthen pitchers of beautiful girls engrossed in rubbing themselves are restless, and are swaying just a ittle too much. Now the ripples are defiantly climbing up their shoulders, again they are flinging themselves at the feet of those who had got up on the bank, and there beating their heads as if to say, “vouchsafe the liberty of touching your gracious feet, ” (by way of conciliation) at the least besmearing themselves with the lacdye washed away from their feet. By slow degrees, you find the sound of the wind deepening, it no longer melts in the ear like the verse of Jayadeva, [1] no longer it softly plies its lute in your auricle in the melody of Bhairabi. [2] Gradually you find it intensifying into a bowl with a flourish of roars. Suddenly the ripples are swollen, they shake their heads and dash along—and there is darkness. Adverse winds block the way, and catching hold of the prow lash the boat against the water and veer it round, and finding the outlook not very encouraging, you make your obeisance to the Wind-god and run your boat ashore.
Shaibalini’s boat was placed in a like predicament. As morning wore on, the wind began to rise. The boat was large and could not make head against adverse winds; the guards moored it at Bbadrahatty.
Sometime after, a barber-woman approached. She was married, and clad in a rather short red-bordered sari, with a fringe of a similar hue, and holding a basket full of lacdye—cotton in her hand. Finding a large
