CHAPTER XXI 



A STRUGGLE WITH GRASS-SHOES 



THREE o'clock in the morning. A burning candle 

 lights up my tent. Varadara tears me from the 

 arms of Morpheus. It is icy cold. One scarcely 

 dares to dip one's finger-tips into the water. 



" Sultana begs permission to enter and put on 

 Sahib's grass-shoes." 



And whilst I am eagerly swallowing my warm 

 tea, he tries to force my feet into these unaccustomed 

 fetters. 



" Impossible ; I shan't be able to walk twenty 

 steps in these things." 



" All Sahibs wear them," says Paul reassuringly. 



Just imagine : thick woollen stockings more like 

 our mittens, with felt slippers the same shape over 

 them, and on the top of that sandals and plaited 

 straw. 



With natural Indian skill and quickness, Sultana 

 pulls my toes apart for the third time in the attempt 

 to get a rope as thick as my finger between them. 



Having at last succeeded, he twists it several times 



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