The powerful notes now rush together, now spread
out through space, break off, intermingle, and become entangled,
like the fantastic melody of a delirious fever, some musical phantasy
born of the howling and whistling of the wind.
Alas! the charm of these sounds is soon exhausted, and you begin
to feel that they cut like knives through your brain. A horrid
fancy haunts our bewildered heads; we imagine that the invisible
artists strain our own veins, and not the strings of imaginary
violins; their cold breath freezes us, blowing their imaginary
trumpets, shaking our nerves and impeding our breathing.
"For God's sake stop this, Takur! This is really too much," shouted
the colonel, at the end of his patience, and covering his ears with
his hands. "Gulab-Sing, I tell you you must stop this."
The three Hindus burst out laughing; and even the grave face of
the Takur lit up with a merry smile. "Upon my word," said he,
"do you really take me for the great Parabrahm? Do you think it
is in my power to stop the wind, as if I were Marut, the lord of
the storms, in person. Ask for something easier than the
instantaneous uprooting of all these bamboos."
"I beg your pardon; I thought these strange sounds also were some
kind of psychologic influence."
"So sorry to disappoint you, my dear colonel; but you really must
think less of psychology and electrobiology.
