Quick! Quick! if the rising ground is to be gained and the levels beyond forded ere the water is too deep! Moti and a companion yoked by plough-ropes to the bed, wade knee-deep, hock-deep, into the stream, and now with the old, cheerful cry Nuttia, clinging to their tails and so guiding them, urges the beasts deeper still. The stream swirls past holding them with it, though they breast it bravely. A log, long stranded in some shallow, dances past, shaving the raft by an inch. Then an alligator, swept from its moorings and casting eyes on Nuttia's brown legs, makes the beasts plunge madly. A rope breaks,--the churned water sweeps over the women,--the end is near,--when another frantic struggle leaves Moti alone to her task. The high childish voice calling on her favourite's courage rises again and again; but the others, cowed into silence, clutch together with hid faces, till a fresh plunge loosens their tongues once more. It is Moti finding foothold, and they are safe--so far.
"Quick! _Mai_ Jewun," cries Nuttia, as her companions stand looking fearfully over the waste of shallows before them. She knows from the narrowness of the ridge they have reached that time is precious. "We must wade while we can, saving Moti for the streams. Take up the baby, and I--"
Her hands, busy on the bed, stilled themselves,--her face grew grey,--she turned on them like a fury. "Sirdar Begum! I put her there--where is Sirdar Begum?"
"That bed-leg!" shrilled the mother, tucking up her petticoats for greater freedom. "There was no room, and Heart's Delight was cold. Bah! wood floats."
"_Hull-lal-lal-a lalla la!_" The herdsman's cry was the only answer. Moti has faced the flood again, but this time with a light load, for the baby nestling amid Nuttia's clothes is the only occupant of the frail raft.
"My son! My son! Light of mine eyes! Core of my heart! Come back! Come back!"
But the little black head drifting down stream behind the big one never turned from its set purpose. Wood floated, and so might babies. Why not?
Why not, indeed! But, as a matter of fact, _Mai_ Jewun was right. A dilapidated bed-leg was picked up on a sand-bank miles away when the floods subsided; and Moti joined the herd next day to chew the cud of her reflections contentedly. But the village Legacy and Heart's Delight remained somewhere seeking for something,--that something, doubtless, which had turned the bed-leg into Sirdar Begum.