No--yes--no--yes--it WAS he: the snowy white beard, the mild eyes, the nose flattened to a jelly, and level with the rest of the venerable face, proclaimed him at once to be--Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee, Holkar's prime vizier; whose nose, as the reader may recollect, his Highness had flattened with his kaleawn during my interview with him in the Pitan's disguise.

I now knew my fate but too well--I was in the hands of Holkar.
Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee slowly advanced towards me, and with a mild air of benevolence, which distinguished that excellent man (he was torn to pieces by wild horses the year after, on account of a difference with Holkar), he came to my bedside, and taking gently my hand, said, "Life and death, my son, are not ours.

Strength is deceitful, valor is unavailing, fame is only wind--the nightingale sings of the rose all night--where is the rose in the morning?
Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost.

The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird?
Penabekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted, and roasted! Who knows how misfortune comes?
It has come to Gahagan Gujputi!" "It is well," said I, stoutly, and in the Malay language.

"Gahagan Gujputi will bear it like a man." "No doubt--like a wise man and a brave one; but there is no lane so long to which there is not a turning, no night so black to which there comes not a morning.