otea, with her
hyper-intuition should have found, selected this spiritual tutor from
the horde of gurus, byragies, and yogis that were connecting links
between the tremendous pantheon of grotesque gods and the common
people. Here she had come to an intellectual, though no doubt an
ascetic; one possessed of fierce fervour in his ministry. There would
be no swaying of that will force developed to the keen flexible
unflawed temper of a Damascus blade.

Now the priest was saying in the _asl_ (pure) Hindustani of the
high-bred Brahmin: "The Sahib confers honour upon Sri Swami Sarasvati
by this visit, for the woman has related that he is of high caste
amongst the Englay and has been trusted by the Raj with a mission.
That he comes in the garb of my people is consideration for it avoids
outrage to their feelings. I am glad to know that the Englay are so
considerate."

"I came, Swami, because of regard for Bootea for she is like a
princess."

The priest shot a quick, searching look into the eyes of the speaker,
then he asked, "And what service would the Sahib ask?"

The question caught Captain Barlow unaware; he had not formulated
anything--it had all been nebulous, this dread. He hesitated, fearing
to voice that which perhaps did not exist in the minds of either the
priest or Bootea.

The girl perceived the hesitancy and spoke rapidly in a low voice to
the priest.

"Captain Sahib," the Swami began, "I see that thy heart is inclined to
the woman, and it is to be admired, for she is, as thou thinkest, like
a flower of the forest. But also, Captain Sahib, thy heart is the
heart of a soldier, of a brave man, the light of valour is in thine
eyes, in thy face, and I would ask thee to be brave, and instead of
being cast in sorrow because of what I am going to tell thee, thou must
realise that it is for the good of the woman whose face is in thy
heart. To-day she insures to her soul a place in kattas, the heaven of
Siva, the abiding place of Brahm, the Creator of all that is."

Barlow felt himself reel at this sudden confirmation of his fears--the
blow. The cry "_Kurban_" that he had heard on the bridge was a
reality--a human sacrifice.

"God!" he cried in a voice of anguish, "it can't be. Young and
beautiful and good, to die--it's wrong. I forbid such a cruel, wanton
sacrifice of a sweet life."

The Swami, taking a step toward the door, swept his long thin arm with
a gesture that embraced the thousands beyond.