the Mugger at his feet, and kneeling,
slipped an arm round the cold neck. "Mother," he said gently, "get thee
to thy flood again. The matter is not for thee. What harm shall thy
honour take of this live dirt? Thou hast given them their fields new
year after year, and by thy flood they are made strong. They come all to
thee at the last. What need to slay them now? Have pity, mother, for a
little--and it is only for a little."

"If it be only for a little," the slow beast began.

"Are they Gods, then?" Krishna returned with a laugh, his eyes looking
into the dull eyes of the River. "Be certain that it is only for a
little. The Heavenly Ones have heard thee, and presently justice will
be done. Go now, mother, to the flood again. Men and cattle are thick on
the waters--the banks fall--the villages melt because of thee."

"But the bridge--the bridge stands." The Mugger turned grunting into the
undergrowth as Krishna rose.

"It is ended," said the Tigress, viciously. "There is no more justice
from the Heavenly Ones. Ye have made shame and sport of Gunga, who asked
no more than a few score lives."

"Of my people--who lie under the leaf-roofs of the village yonder--of
the young girls, and the young men who sing to them in the dark--of the
child that will be born next morn--of that which was begotten to-night,"
said Krishna. "And when all is done, what profit? To-morrow sees them
at work. Ay, if ye swept the bridge out from end to end they would begin
anew. Hear me! Bhairon is drunk always. Hanuman mocks his people with
new riddles."

"Nay, but they are very old ones," the Ape said, laughing.

"Shiv hears the talk of the schools and the dreams of the holy men;
Ganesh thinks only of his fat traders; but I--I live with these my
people, asking for no gifts, and so receiving them hourly."

"And very tender art thou of thy people," said the Tigress.

"They are my own. The old women dream of me turning in their sleep; the
maids look and listen for me when they go to fill their lotahs by the
river. I walk by the young men waiting without the gates at dusk, and I
call over my shoulder to the white-beards. Ye know, Heavenly Ones, that
I alone of us all walk upon the earth continually, and have no pleasure
in our heavens so long as a green blade springs here, or there are two
voices at twilight in the standing crops. Wise are ye, but ye live
far off; forgetting whence ye came. So do I not forget. And the
fire-carriage feeds