Beyond the garden the life of Cawnpore moved in its many streets;
the shout of a donkey-driver, the shrill of a bugle from the barracks
broke sharply through the muffled sounds of the city. The June wind,
heavy with the waters of the Ganges which flows past Cawnpore, made
the night insufferably hot. But the heat did not trouble Sabat, the
wild son of the Arabian desert, who was talking--as he always did--in
a roaring voice that was louder than most men's shouting. He was
telling the story of Abdallah's brave death as a Christian martyr.[62]
Quietly listening to Sabat's voice--though he could not understand
what he was saying--was a young Italian, Padre Julius Caesar, a monk of
the order of the Jesuits. On his head was a little skull-cap, over his
body a robe of fine purple satin held with a girdle of twisted silk.
Near him sat an Indian scholar--on his dark head a full turban, and
about him richly-coloured robes. On the other side sat a little, thin,
copper-coloured Bengali dressed in white, and a British officer in his
scarlet and gold uniform, with his wife, who has told us the story of
that evening.
Not one of these brightly dressed people was, however, the strongest
power there. A man in black clothes was the real centre of the group.
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