uncan McClean, bareheaded, holding his daughter's hand. They
had no weapons; they were messengers of peace, protesting, or so they
looked. No longer timid, but resigned to what might happen--they held
each other's hands, and blocked the way of Siva's votaries--Siva's
tools--and Siva's ritual.

Jaimihr whispered to his brother--the first time he had dared one
word to him in person for years--the high priest of the temple pressed
forward angrily, saying nothing, but trying to combine rage and dignity
with an attempt to turn the incident to priestly advantage. Surely this
was a crisis out of which the priests must come triumphant; they held
all the cards--knew how and when rebellion was timed, and could compare,
as the principals themselves could not do, Howrah's strength with
Jaimihr's. And the priests had the crowd to back them--the ignorant,
superstitious crowd that can make or dethrone emperors.

But some strange freak of real dignity--curiosity perhaps, or possibly
occasion--spurred desire to act of his own initiative and keep the high
priest in his place--impelled the Maharajah in that minute. Men said
afterward that Jaimihr had whispered to him advice which he knew was
barbed because it was his brother whispering, and that he promptly did
the opposite; but, whatever the motive, he drew himself up in all his
jewelled splendor and demanded: "What do you people wish?"

The McCleans were given no time to reply. The priests did not see fit
to let the reins of this occasion slip; the word went out, panic-voiced,
that sacrilege to Siva was afoot.

"Slay them! Slay them!" yelled the crowd. "They violate the sacred
rites!"

There were no Mohammedans among that crowd to take delight in seeing
Hindoo priests discomfited and Hindoo ritual disturbed. There came no
counter-shout. The crowd did not, as so often happens, turn and rend
itself; and yet, though a surge from behind pressed forward, the men in
front pressed back.

"Slay them! Slay the sacrilegious foreigners!" The yell grew louder and
more widely voiced, but no man in the front ranks moved.

The Maharajah looked from the company of guards that lined the
palace-steps to the priests and his brother and the crowd--and then to
the McCleans again.

He remembered Alwa and his Rangars, thought of the messenger whom he had
sent, remembered that a regiment of lance-armed horsemen would be worth
a risk or two to win over to his side, and made decision.

"You are in dan