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sun was just setting: gloriously beautiful was the western sky with its many and varied tints. On land and water the sun's tremulous light seemed gently smiling, while a soft breeze blew: everything was calm and inviting. On such an evening as this, a number of young men were thronging with loud and boisterous shouts down the main street of Vaidyabati. They knocked against the passers-by, smashing the things they were carrying, hustling them, throwing their baskets away and robbing them of their supplies of food. They sang continuously at the top of their voices, imitating the howls of dogs at the same time. On either side of the road people fled, calling for assistance and protection, trembling, and bewildered with fear. Like a storm sweeping down from all four quarters of the compass at once, with the roar of heavy rain, this whirlwind came tearing and raging past. And who are these mighty men? Who indeed but those models of virtue, Matilall and his companions? -- King Nala and Yudhishthira over again! They are far too great personages to pay heed to anyone: so full of self-importance and of pride are their heads that they are as unsteady in their gait as men drunk with much wine. They have it all their own way as they come swaggering along.

Just then an old man from the village, one Mozoomdar, his solitary lock waving in the breeze, a stick in one hand and some vegetables in the other, approached them, leaning heavily on his stick. They all surrounded him and