As the horse struggled up the bank, with clotted mane and streaming flanks, Manton Sahib uttered a few words which were not addressed to the ryots, and which they could not understand. Isa Das thought, and perhaps thought rightly, that the Englishman, in his own language, was thanking God for preservation from death. The Sahib shook the drops from his dripping hair; his solah topee was floating far away down the river; he had lost it in the desperate struggle for life. Manton patted the neck of his trembling horse; then turning towards the ryots, addressed them in their own tongue,—