his words. The fate of India's women, he
had said, lay at the feet of such fair and noble ladies as her Grace.
The Judge remembered that people were saying that evening of Iswar
Chandra that he was a fascinating and earnest man, and that he would be
the pioneer of great things in the country of his birth.

The eyes of the half-naked savage challenged the Judge over the sea of
moving heads, and drove away the supercilious smile from his lips.

"Brother, we claim you! You are of our blood, and we need such as you to
lead us. The Feringhi have sharpened a sword to cut us down, but it
shall turn to destroy them. Brother, we suffer the torments of
hell--will you deliver us? Brother, we starve--will you give us food?
Will you deal out to us life or death, you whose fathers were as our
fathers? Choose now between great honor and the infamy that dies not!
You are the paid creature of the British Raj, or you are a leader of
free men. Brother, speak!"

As in a dream the Judge approached the waiting crowd. His mouth was
parched, his heart beat fitfully. He wanted that piercing voice to wake
the echoes again, to take up the story of the old blood-feud, to goad
him into doing that which he had not the courage to do. Vanished was his
pride of intellect, and of fine achievement. He was a native, and he
tugged and crawled at the stretch of the British chain.

"The Feringhi are few, and we are many. Shall the few rule the many?
Shall we be servants and poor while yet in the arms of our own golden
mother? In their own country do the Feringhi not say that the word of
the majority shall be law? So be it! We accept their word. The majority
shall rule! O brother, skilled in the Feringhi craft, high-placed to
administer justice to all who are brought before thee, do I not speak
the truth?"

The Judge threw away the dead end of his cigar, and shouldered his way
into the inmost circle.

"Peace, thou," he said, thickly; "this is folly. Ye must wait awhile for
vengeance."

Chandra threw up his arms, writhing in a very ecstasy of fury.

"We have waited--have we not waited?--beside our open graves. Death to
the Feringhi! Let them no longer desecrate our land. Let us forget that
they ever were. They be few, and we be many. Brothers! To-night,
to-night!"

The Judge was tearing off his clothes, he was trampling them beneath his
feet, he was crying out in a strange, raucous voice; and all the swaying
crowds were taking up his words, maddeni