Down past the stone shrine of Kedarnath, down and over the tall grass of the Dehra-Dun, marched the host of the older gods. The Pandas marched with feet that touched not the tall grass. Past the deva-prayag—the meeting-place of the waters—came the older gods bearing weapons in their hands.

In the deva-prayag they washed themselves clean. The gods were very angry. The wind came and went at their bidding.

Thus they came. And the snow-summits of Himal, the grass of the valley, and the meeting-place of the waters—all were as one to the gods.

The Vedas

The heavy morning dew lay on the grass of the land of the Five Rivers, the Punjab. The hot, dry monsoon was blowing up from the southern plain and cooling itself among the foothills of the Siwalik in the year of our Lord 1609 when two riders turned their horses from a hill path into the main highway of the district of Kukushetra.

It was a fair day, and the thicket through which the trail ran was alive with the flutter of pigeons and heavy with the scent of wild thyme and jasmine and the mild odor of the fern trees. The sun beat on them warmly, for the Spring season was barely past and they were riding south in the eastern Punjab, by the edge of Rajasthan, toward the headwaters of the Ganges, in the empire of Jahangir, Ruler of the World and Mogul of India.

“A fair land,” said one. “A land ripe with sun, with sweet fruits and much grain. Our horses will feed well. Here you may rest from your wounds—”

He pointed with a slender, muscular hand to where a gilt dome reared itself over the cypress tops on a distant hill summit.

the bride of jagannath 3 61

“Eh, my Brother of Battles,” he said, “yonder shines the dome of Kukushetra. Aye, the temple of Kukushetra wherein dwells an image of Jagannath—”

“Jagannath!”

It was a shrill cry that came from the roadside. A small figure leaped from the bushes at the word and seized the bridles of both horses. They reared back and he who had pointed to the temple muttered a round oath.

“Jagannath!” cried the newcomer solemnly.

He was a very slender man, half-naked, with a gray cloth twisted about his loins. The string hanging down his left chest indicated—as well as the caste-mark on his forehead—that he was a Brahman, of the lesser temple order.

“The holy name!” he chanted. “Lord of the World! Brother to Balabhadra and to Subhadra! Incarnation of the mighty Vishnu, and master of the Kali-damana! Even as ye have named Jagannath, so must ye come to the reception hall of the god—”

“What is this madness?” asked the elder of the two riders gruffly. The Brahman glanced at him piercingly and resumed his arrogant harangue.

“The festival of Jagannath is near at hand, warrior,” he warned. “This is the land of the mighty god. Come, then, to the temple and bring your gift to lay at the shrine of Jagannath of Kukushetra, which is only less holy than the shrine of Puri itself, at blessed Orissa. Come—”

“By Allah!” laughed the first rider. “By the ninety-nine holy names of God!”

He shook in his saddle with merriment. The Brahman dropped the reins as if they had been red hot and surveyed the two with angry disappointment.

“By the beard of the Prophet, and the ashes of my grandsire—

this is a goodly jest,” roared the tall warrior. “Behold, a pilgrim

hunter come to solicit Abdul Dost and Khlit of the Curved Saber.”

He spoke Mogholi, whereas the misguided Brahman had used

his native Hindustani. Khlit understood Abdul Dost. Yet he did

not laugh. He was looking curiously at the marked brow of the priest, which had darkened in anger at the gibe of the Muslim.

“Eh—this is verily a thing to warm the heart,” went on Abdul Dost. “A Brahman, a follower of Jagannath, bids us twain come to the festival of his god. He knew not that I am a follower of the true Prophet, and you, Khlit, wear a Christian cross of gold under the shirt at your throat.”

He turned to the unfortunate pilgrim hunter.

“Nay, speaker-of-the-loud-tongue, here is an ill quarter to cry your wares. Would the wooden face of armless Jagannath smile upon a Muslim and a Christian, think you?”

“Nay,” quoth the priest scornfully, “not so much as upon a toad, or a pariah who is an eater of filth.”

In his zeal, he had not taken careful note of the persons of the two travelers.

He scanned the warriors keenly, looking longest at Khlit. The elegantly dressed Afghan, with his jeweled scimitar and his silver-mounted harness and small, tufted turban, was a familiar figure.

But the gaunt form of the Cossack was strange to the Brahman. Khlit’s bearded cheeks were haggard with hardship and illness in the mountains during the long Winter of Kashmir, and his wide, deep-set eyes were gray. His heavy sheepskin coat was thrown back, disclosing a sinewy throat and high, rugged shoulders.

In Khlit’s scarred face was written the boldness of a fighting race, hardened, not softened by the wrinkles of age. It was an open face, lean and weather-stained. The deep eyes returned the stare of the priest with a steady, meditative scrutiny.

Abdul Dost was still smiling. His handsome countenance was that of a man in the prime of life, proud of his strength. He sat erect in a jeweled saddle, a born horseman and the finest swords-man of northern Hindustan. He rode a mettled Arab. Khlit’s horse was a shaggy Kirghiz pony.

“It is time,” broke in Khlit bluntly—he was a man of few words—“that we found food for ourselves and grain for our horses. Where lies this peasant we seek?”

Abdul Dost turned to the watching priest, glancing at the sun.

“Ho, hunter of pilgrims,” he commanded, “since we are not birds for your snaring—and the enriching of your idol—tell us how many bowshot distant is the hut of Bhimal, the catcher of birds. We have ridden since sunup, and our bellies yearn.”

The Brahman folded his arms. He seemed inclined to return a sharp answer, then checked himself. His black eyes glinted shrewdly. He pointed down the dusty highway.

“If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into the well,” he chanted. “Nay, would you behold the power of the name of Jagannath whom you foolishly deride? Then come with me to the abode of this same Bhimal. I will guide you, for I am bound thither myself on a quest from the temple.”

“So be it,” nodded Abdul Dost carelessly and urged his horse forward, offering the pilgrim hunter a stirrup which the Brahman indignantly refused.

Abdul Dost was not the man to repent his own words, spoken freely. But he understood better than Khlit the absolute power of the Hindu priests in the Land of the Five Rivers.

The fertile province of Kukushetra was a favorite resort for the Hindu pilgrims of the highlands. Here were the ruins of an ancient temple, near which the new-gilded edifice—a replica of that at Puri at the Ganges’ mouth—had been built. Here also were gathered the priests from the hill monasteries, to tend the shrine of the Kukushetra Jagannath.

Religious faith had not made a breach between Khlit and Abdul Dost. The Cossack was accustomed to keep his thoughts to himself, and to the mansabdar friendship was a weightier matter than the question of faith. He had eaten bread and salt with Khlit.

He had nearly slain the Cossack in their first meeting, and this had made the two boon companions. Khlit had treated his wounds with gunpowder and earth mixed with spittle—until Abdul Dost substituted clean bandages and ointment.

The two ate of the same food and slept often under the same robe. They were both veteran fighters in an age when a man’s

life was safeguarded only by a good sword-arm. Abdul Dost was pleased to lead his comrade through the splendid hill country of northern India, perhaps influenced—for he was a man of simple ideas—by the interest which the tall figure of Khlit always aroused among the natives.

Khlit was well content to have the companionship of a man who liked to wander and who had much to say of India and the wars of the Mogul. Khlit himself was a wanderer who followed the path of battles. From this he had earned the surname of the “Curved Saber.”

It was the first time that Khlit had set foot in Hindustan, which was the heart of the Mogul Empire.

The priest, who had maintained a sullen silence, halted at a wheat field bordering the road. Here a bare-legged, turbaned man was laboring, cutting the wheat with a heavy sickle and singing as he worked.

The Brahman called, and the man straightened, casting an anxious eye at the three in the road. Khlit saw his eyes widen as he recognized the priest.

“Greeting, Kurral,” spoke the man in the field; “may the blessing of divine Vishnu rest upon you.”

“Come, Bhimal,” commanded the Brahman sharply; “here be barbarian wayfarers who seek your hut. Lay aside your sickle. Your harvesting is done.”

With a puzzled glance over his shoulders at the half-gathered grain, Bhimal the chiria mars—Hindu of the bird-slaying caste— led the way to his cottage beside the field. It was a clay-walled hut with a roof of thatched roots, under the pleasant shade of a huge banyan.

On either side of the door within the shade grapevines were trained upon a lattice; in the rear an open shed housed two buffalo—the prized possession of Bhimal and his brother.

At the threshold, however, the slayer-of-birds hesitated strangely and faced his companions as if unwilling for them to enter. Khlit and Abdul Dost dismounted, well-content with the

spot, where they had heard a good breakfast for a man and beast might be had from the hospitable Bhimal. They had unsaddled and were about to request a jar of water from the cottage tank under the banyan when a word from Kurral arrested them.

“Stay,” muttered the Brahman.

Turning to Bhimal, he smiled, while the simple face of the old peasant grew anxious.

“Is it not true, Bhimal, that this cottage belongs to you and your brother, who departed long ago on a pilgrimage to Puri?” “It is true, Kurral,” assented Bhimal.

“That you own two fields and a half of good wheat ready for the harvest? And two buffalo? This cottage?”

At each question the peasant nodded.

“And a few rare birds which you caught in snares?”

Kurral drew a folded parchment from the robe at his waist and consulted it. Then he tossed it to Bhimal.

“You cannot read, O slayer-of-birds,” he smiled. “But this is a bond signed by your brother. You can make out his scrawl, over the endorsement of the holy priest of Puri, the unworthy slave of Jagannath. The bond is for the cottage and all the goods, animals and tools of your brother and yourself. It was sent from the mighty temple of Puri to the lesser shrine at Kukushetra. And I am come to take payment.”

Khlit, not understanding Hindustani, yet read sudden misery in the lined face of Bhimal.

“How fares my brother?” cried the peasant.

“He brought fitting gifts of fruit, grain and oatmeal to the shrine of Jagannath, Bhimal. His zeal was great. All the coins that he had, he gave. But mighty Jagannath was ill-rewarded by your brother, for you came not with him on the pilgrimage.”

“Nay, I am sorely lame.”

Bhimal pointed sadly to a partially withered leg.

“No matter,” declared Kurral sternly. “Is Jagannath a pariah, to be cheated of his due—by miserable slayers of carrion birds? Your brother wrote the bond for this cottage and the fields. He offered

it to the priest and it was taken. Thus he gained the blessing of all-powerful Jagannath.”

“Then—he is ill?”

“Nay, I heard that he died upon the return journey, in the heat. By his death he is blessed—as are all those who perish on behalf of the All-Destroyer, whether under the wheels of the sacred car or upon the path of pilgrimage.”

Bhimal hung his head in resignation. Abdul Dost, with a shrug of his slender shoulders, was about to take the jar of water from the tank when Kurral wheeled on him vindictively.

“Stay, barbarian!” he warned. “This tank and the cottage and the food within is now the property of the temple of Kukushetra. No unclean hand may be laid upon it.”

Abdul Dost stared at him grimly and glanced questioningly at Bhimal.

“It is true,” admitted the peasant sadly. “A bond given to the god by my brother is binding upon my unworthy self. Yet—“he faced Kurral beseechingly—”the wheat and the rare birds are all that I have to live through the season of rains.

“Suffer me to stay in the cottage and work on behalf of the god. I shall render you a just tribute of all, keeping just enough for my own life. I would strew the ashes of grief upon my head in solitude—”

“Nay,” retorted Kurral; “would you mourn a life that has passed to the keeping of the gods? I have marked you as one of little faith. So you may not tend this property. Another will see to it.”

A rebellious flicker appeared in the dim eyes of the peasant.

“Has not Jagannath taken the things that are dearest to me, Kurral?” he cried shrilly. “My brother’s life and these good buffaloes? Nay, then let me keep but one thing!”

“What?” demanded the priest, still enjoying his triumph over the two warriors.

“A peacock with a tail of many-colored beauty. I have tended it as a gift to my lord, the Rawul Matap Rao, upon his marriage. I have promised the gift.”

Kurral considered.

“Not so,” he decided. “For the Rawul—so it is said—has not bent his head before the shrine of Kukushetra in many moons. It is rumored that he inclines to an unblessed sect, the worshipers of the sun-image of Vishnu—the followers of the gosain Chaitanya. He is unworthy the name of Hindu. Better the peacock should adorn the temple garden than strut for the pleasure of the bride of Rawul Matap Rao.”

Then Khlit saw a strange form appear from within the entrance of the hut. In the dim light under the great tree it appeared as a glittering child with a plumed headdress. Kurral, too, saw it and started.

“Who names the Rawul with false breath?” cried the figure in a deep melodious voice. “Ho—it is Kurral, the pilgrim hunter. Me-thought I knew his barbed tongue.”

By now Khlit saw that the figure was that of a warrior, standing scarce shoulder high to the Cossack and the tall Afghan. A slim, erect body was brightly clad, the legs bound by snowy white muslin, a shawl girdle of green silk falling over the loins, a shirt of finely wrought silvered mail covering the small body, the brown arms bare, a helmet of thin bronze on the dark head.

The man’s face was that of a Hindu of the warrior caste, the eyes dark and large, the nostrils thin. A pair of huge black mustaches were twisted up either cheek. A quiver full of arrows hung at the waist-girdle.

In one hand the archer held a bow; under the other arm he clasped a beautiful peacock, whose tail had stirred Khlit’s inter-est.

“Sawal Das!” muttered Kurral.

“Aye, Sawal Das,” repeated the archer sharply, “servant and warrior of the excellent Rawul Matap Rao. I came to Bhimal’s hut at sunup to claim the peacock, for my lord returns to his castle of Thaneswar tomorrow night. And now, O beguiler-of-men, have you wasted your breath; for I have already claimed the peacock on behalf of my lord.”

“Too much of the evil juice of the grape has trickled down your gullet, Sawal Das,” scowled the priest. “For that you came to the hut—under pretense of taking the bird. You are a dishonor to your caste—”

“Windbag! Framer-of-lies!”

The archer laughed.

“Ohé—are you one to question a warrior? When the very clients that come to your cell will not take food or water from the hand of a Barna* Brahman. Oho—well you know that my master would hold himself contaminated were your shadow to fall across his feet.”

He paused to stare at Khlit and Abdul Dost, whom he had not observed before.

“So you would steal from Jagannath!” fumed the priest. “Nay.”

The white teeth of the archer showed through his mustache.

“Am I one of the godless Kukushetra brethren who gorge them-selves with the food that is offered to Jagannath? I plunder none save my lawful foes—behold this Turkish mail and helmet as witness!”

“Skulker!”

The hard face of the Brahman flushed darkly. “Eavesdropper!”

“At least,” retorted the warrior, “I take not the roof from over the head of the man whose guest I am.”

He turned to the mournful Bhimal.

“Come, comrade, will you let this evil lizard crawl into your hut? A good kick will send him flying.”

“Nay—” the peasant shook his head—“it may not be. My brother gave a bond.”

“But your brother is dead.”

“He pledged his word. I would be dishonored were I not to fulfill it.”

*One of the lowest orders of the priesthood.

Sawal Das grimaced.

“By Siva!” he cried. “A shame to give good grain and cattle to these scavengers. Half the farms of the countryside they have taken to themselves. Even the might of my lord the Rawul can not safeguard the lands of his peasants. If this thing must be, then come to Thaneswar where you will be safe from the greed of such as Kurral.”

“I thank you, Sawal Das.”

Bhimal looked up gratefully.

“But I would be alone for a space to mourn my brother who is dead.”

“So be it,” rejoined the archer, “but forget not Thaneswar. Rawul Matap Rao has need of faithful house-servants.”

“Aye,” observed the priest; “the time will come when he who sits in Thaneswar will have need of—hirelings.”

Khlit, indifferent to the discussion which he did not under-stand, had watered his horse and searched out a basket of fruit and cakes of jellied rice within the hut. Coming forth with his prize, he tossed a piece of silver money to Bhimal.

The peasant caught it and would have secreted it in his garments, but Kurral’s sharp eye had seen the act.

“Take not the silver that is Jagannath’s!”

He held out his hand.

“Or you will be accursed.”

Reluctantly the peasant was about to yield the money to the priest when Sawal Das intervened.

“The bond said naught of money, Kurral,” he pointed out. “Is your hunger for wealth like to a hyena’s yearning for carrion? Is there no end of your greed? Touch not the dinar.”

The priest turned upon the archer furiously.

“Take care!” he cried. “Kukushetra has had its fill of the idolatry of the Rawul and the insolence of his servants. Take care lest you lose your life by lifting hand against mighty Jagannath!”

“I fear not the god,” smiled Sawal Das. “Lo, I will send him a gift, even Jagannath himself, by the low-born Kurral.”

So swiftly that the watching Abdul Dost barely caught his movements, the archer dropped the peacock and plucked an arrow from its quiver. In one motion he strung the short bow and fitted arrow to string.

Kurral backed away, his eyes widening in sudden fear. Evidently he had reason to respect the archer. A tree-trunk arrested his progress abruptly.

Sawal Das seemed not to take aim, yet the arrow flew and the bowstring twanged. The shaft buried itself deep into the tree-trunk. And the sacred cord which hung to Kurral’s left shoulder was parted in twain.

Kurral gazed blankly at the severed string and the arrow em-bedded not two inches from his ear. Then he turned and fled into the thicket, glancing over his shoulder as he went.

“A good shot, that, archer,” laughed Abdul Dost.

“It was nought,” grinned Sawal Das. “On a clear day I have severed the head from a carrion bird in full flight. Nay, a good shaft was wasted where it will do little good.”

He strutted from the hut, gathering up the peacock.

“If you are strangers in Kukushetra,” he advised, “you would do well to seek the door of my master, Rawul Matap Rao. He asks not what shrine you bow before, and he has ever an ear for a goodly song or tale, or—” Sawal Das noted the Afghan’s lean figure appraisingly—“employment for a strong sword-arm. He is a just man, and within his gates you will be safe.”

“So there is to be a marriage feast at Thaneswar?”

“Aye,” nodded the archer, “and rare food and showers of silver for all who attend. This road leads to Thaneswar castle by the first turn uphill. Watch well the path you take, for there are evil bandits—servants of the death-loving Kali—afoot in the deeper jungle.”

With that he raised a hand in farewell and struck off into a path through the brush, singing to himself, leaving Bhimal sitting grief-stricken on the threshold of the hut and Khlit and Abdul Dost quietly breakfasting.

II

On that day the young chieftain of Thaneswar had broken the torun over the gate of Rinthambur.

The torun was a triangular emblem of wood hung over the portal of a woman who was to become a bride. Matap Rao, a clever horseman, rode under the stone arch, and while the women servants and the ladies of Rinthambur laughingly pelted him with flowers and plaited leaves he struck the torun with his lance until it fell to earth in fragments.

This done, as was customary, the mock defense of Rinthambur castle ceased; the fair garrison ended their pretty play and Rawul Matap Rao was welcomed by the men within the gate.

He was a man fit to be allied by blood even with the celebrated chiefs of the Rinthambur clan—a man barely beyond the limits of youth, who had many cares and who administered a wide province—Thaneswar—with the skill of an elder.

Perhaps the Rawul was not the fighting type beloved by the minstrels of the Rinthambur house. He was not prone to make wars upon his neighbors, choosing rather to study how the taxes of his peasants might be lightened and the heavy hand of the Kukushetra temple be kept from spoliation of the ignorant farmers.

The young Rawul, last of his line, was a breeder of fine horses, a student and a philosopher of high intelligence. He was the equal in birth to Retha of Rinthambur—the daughter of a warlike clan of the sun-born caste. She had smiled upon his wooing and the chieftains who were head of her house were not ill content to join the clans of Rinthambur and Thaneswar by blood.

War on behalf of the Mogul, and their own reckless extravagance with money and the blood of their followers, had weakened the clan. The remaining members had gathered at Rinthambur castle to pay fitting welcome to the Rawul.

“We yield to your care,” they said, “her who is the gem in the diadem of Rajasthan—Retha of Rinthambur—who is called

‘Lotus Face’ in the Punjab. Guard her well. If need arise command our swords, for our clans are one.”

So Matap Rao joined his hand to that of Retha, and the knot in their garments was tied in the hall of Rinthambur before the fire altar. Both Matap Rao and the Rinthambur chieftains were descendants of the fire family of the Hindus—devotees of the higher and milder form of Vishnu worship.

“Thaneswar,” he said, “shall be another gate to Rinthambur and none shall be so welcome as the riders of Rinthambur.”

But the chieftains after bidding adieu to him and his bride announced that they would remain and hold revelry in their own hall for two days, leaving the twain to seek Thaneswar, as was the custom.

Thus it happened that Matap Rao, flushed with exultation and deep in love, rode beside his bride to the boundary of Rinthambur, where the last of the bride’s clan turned back. His followers, clad and mounted to the utmost finery of their resources, fell behind the two.

The way seemed long to Matap Rao, even though a full moon peered through the soft glimmer of twilight and the minstrel of Thaneswar—the aged Vina, Perwan Singh—chanted as he rode behind them, and the scent of jasmine hung about their path. In the Thaneswar jungle, at the boundary of the two provinces, a watch tower stood by the road, rearing its bulk against the moon.

Here were lights and soft draperies and a banquet of sugared fruits, sweetened rice, jellies, cakes and curries, prepared by the skilled hands of the women slaves who waited here to welcome their new mistress. And here the party dismounted, the armed followers occupying tents about the tower.

While they feasted and Matap Rao described the banquet that was awaiting them on the following night at Thaneswar hall, Perwan Singh sang to them and the hours passed lightly, until the moon became clouded over and a sudden wind swept through the forest.

A drenching downpour came upon the heels of the wind; the lights in the tower were extinguished, and Retha laid a slim hand fearfully upon the arm of her lord. “It is an ill omen,” she cried.

“Nay,” he laughed, “no omen shall bring a cloud upon the heart of the queen of Thaneswar. Vishnu smiles upon us.”

But Retha, although she laughed with her husband, was not altogether comforted. And, the next morning, when a band of horsemen and camels met them on the highway, she drew closer to Matap Rao.

A jangle of cymbals and kettledrums proclaimed that this was the escort of a higher priest of Kukushetra. Numerous servants, gorgeously dressed, led a fine Kabul stallion forward to meet the Rawul, and its rider smiled upon him.

This was Nagir Jan, gosain of Kukushetra and abbot of the temple.

He was a man past middle life, his thin face bearing the imprint of a dominant will, the chin strongly marked, the eyes piercing. He bowed to Retha, whose face was half-veiled.

“A boon,” he cried, “to the lowly servant of Jagannath. Let him see but once the famed beauty of the Flower of Rinthambur.”

Matap Rao hesitated. He had had reason more than once to feel the power of the master of the temple. Nagir Jan was reputed to be high in the mysteries of the nationwide worship of Jagannath.

Owing to the wealth of the priests of the god, and the authority centered in his temples, the followers of Jagannath were the only Hindus permitted by the Mogul to continue the worship of their divinity as they wished. The might of Jagannath was not lightly to be challenged.

But Nagir Jan was also a learned priest familiar with the Vedas and the secrets of the shrine of Puri itself. As such he could command the respect of Matap Rao, who was an ardent Vishnu worshiper. For Jagannath, by the doctrine of incarnation, embodied the worship of Vishnu.

“If Retha consents,” he responded, “it is my wish.”

The girl realized that the priest had come far to greet her. She desired to please the man who was more powerful than the Rawul in Thaneswar.

So she drew back the veil. But her delicate face wore no smile. The splendid, dark eyes looked once, steadily into the cold eyes of the priest.

“Truly,” said Nagir Jan softly, “is she named the Lotus Face. The lord of Retha is favored of the gods.”

While the twain rode past he continued to look after the girl. Glancing over his shoulder presently, the Rawul saw that Nagir Jan was still seated on his horse, looking at them. He put spurs to his horse, forcing a laugh.

But after the festival at Thaneswar Matap Rao would have given much, even half his lands, if he had not granted the wish of Nagir Jan.

The same thunderstorm that so disturbed the young bride of the Rawul caught Khlit and Abdul Dost on the open road.

The warriors had lingered long at the hospitable hut of Bhimal to escape the midday heat. So the sun was slanting over the wheat fields when they trotted toward the castle of Thaneswar. It was twilight when they came upon the crossroads described by the archer, Sawal Das.

Here was a grimy figure squatted upon a ragged carpet, the center of interest of a group of naked children who scampered into the bushes at sight of the riders.

The man was a half-caste Portuguese, hatless and bootless. On the carpet before him were a mariner’s compass, much the worse for wear, and one or two tattered books, evidently—as Khlit surmised—European prayer-books. He glanced up covertly at the warriors.

“What manner of man is this?” wondered Abdul Dost aloud in Hindustani.

“An unworthy astrologer, so please you, great sirs,” bowed the half-caste.

He closed both eyes and smiled.

“My mystic instrument of divination—” he pointed to the compass—“and my signs of the Zodiac.”

He showed illuminated parchment pictures of the saints in the prayer-book.

“It is a goodly trade, and the witless ones of this country pay well. My name is Merghu. What can I do for the great sirs?”

“Jaisa des waisahi bhes!”—f or such a country, such a masquerade—responded the Afghan contemptuously. “Will not the priest of Kukushetra beat your back with bamboos if they find you here at the crossroads?”

Again the man’s eyes closed slyly and his sullen face leered. He lifted a corner of his cloak, disclosing a huge, ulcerous sore.

“Nay, noble travelers. They may not touch what is unclean. Besides the festival of Janam approaches, and the priests are busied within the temple—”

“Enough!” growled the Afghan at a sign from Khlit, who had marked a cloud-bank creeping over the moon that was beginning to show between the treetops. “We are belated. We were told to take the upper hill trail to Thaneswar castle, but here be two trails. Which is the one we seek?”

“Yonder,” muttered the astrologer, pointing. “The other leads to the temple.”

Khlit and Abdul Dost spurred up the way he had indicated. Glancing back at the first turn in the trail, the Cossack noticed that the sham astrologer had vanished, with all his stock in trade.

But now wind whipped the treetops that met over the trail. Rain poured down in one of the heavy deluges that precede the wet season in this country.

Khlit rode unheeding, but Abdul Dost swore vehemently as his finery became soaked. He spurred his horse faster into the darkness without noticing where they went save that it was upward, trusting to the instinct of his mount to lead him safely.

So the two came at a round pace to a clearing in the trees. A high, blank wall emerged before them. This they circled until

a gate opened and they trotted past a pool of water to a square structure with a high-peaked roof whence came sounds of voices and the clang of cymbals.

“The wedding merriment has begun!” cried Abdul Dost.

He swung down from his horse and beat at a bronze door with fist and sword-hilt. Khlit, from the caution of habit, kept to his saddle. The door swung inward. A glare of light struck into their faces.

“Who comes to the hall of offerings of Jagannath?” cried a voice.

Khlit saw a group of Brahmans at the door. Behind them candles and torches lighted a large room filled with an assemblage of peasants and soldiers who were watching a dance through a wide doorway that seemed to lead into a building beyond.

In this farther space a cluster of young girls moved in time to the music of drums and cymbals, tossing their bare arms and whirling upon their toes so that thin draperies swirled about their half-nude forms.

Abdul Dost, who was a man of single thought, stared at the spectacle in astonishment, his garments dripping and rain beating upon his back.

“Who comes armed to the outer hall of the Lord of the World?” cried a young priest zealously. “Know ye not this is the time of

the Janam?”

“I seek Thaneswar castle,” explained the Afghan. “Is it not here? Nay, I am a traveler, not a slave of your god—”

“Be gone then from here,” commanded the young priest. “This is no place for those of—Thaneswar. Be gone, one-withoutbreeding, low-born—”

“By Allah!” shouted Abdul Dost angrily. “Is this your courtesy to wayfarers in a storm?”

He swung back into his saddle, drawing his sword swiftly. Khlit, lest he should ride his horse into the throng, laid firm hand on the arm of the irate Muslim. They caught a passing glimpse

of the dancing women staring at them, and the crowd. Then the door swung to in their faces with a clang.

“ ‘Low-born,’ they said, in my teeth!” stormed the Afghan. “Base mouthers of indecency! Mockers of true men! Saw you the temple harlots offering their bodies to feast the eyes of the throng? Saw you the faithless priest offering food to the sculptured images of their armless gods—”

“Peace,” whispered Khlit. “Here is an ill place for such words.”

“Why laid you hand on my rein?” fumed Abdul Dost. “If you had fear in your heart for such as these—offscourings of thrice-defiled dirt—why did you not flee? I would have barbered the head of yon shaven villain with my sword. Eh—I am not an old woman who shivers at hard words and sword-strokes—”

Khlit’s grasp on his arm tightened.

“The rain is ceasing,” growled the Cossack. “I can see the lights of Kukushetra village through the farther gate in the temple wall. Many men are afoot. Come. Thaneswar is a better place than this.”

While the Cossack eyed the surroundings of the temple enclosure curiously, Abdul Dost shrugged his shoulders.

“Age has sapped your courage, Khlit,” muttered the mansabdar. “Verily, I heard tales of your daring from the Chinese merchants and the Tatars. Yet you draw back before the insult of a stripling priest.”

Khlit wheeled his horse toward the gate jerking the bridle of the Afghan’s mount.

“Aye, I am old,” he said, half to himself. “And I have seen before this the loom of a man-trap. Come.”

Sullenly the other trotted after him. Back on the trail, the moon, breaking from the clouds by degrees, cast a network of shadows before them. The two rode in silence until Abdul Dost quickened his pace to take the lead.

“Perchance,” he observed grimly, “that miscreant astrologer abides yet at the crossroads. The flat of my sword laid to his belly will teach him not to guide better men than he astray.”

Khlit lifted his head.

“Aye, the astrologer,” he meditated aloud. “Surely he must have known the way to Thaneswar, as well as the temple path. It would be well, Abdul Dost, to watch better our path. Why did he speak us false? That is a horse will need grooming.”

“Aye, with a sword.”

The mansabdar rode heedlessly forward until they had gained the main road. Khlit, looking shrewdly on all sides, thought that he saw a figure move in the thicket at the side of the path. He checked his horse with a low warning to his companion.

But Abdul Dost, lusting for reprisal, slipped down from his saddle and advanced weapon in hand to the edge of the brush, peering into the shadows under the trees, which were so dense that the rain could barely have penetrated beneath their branches. Standing so, he was clearly outlined in the moonlight.

“Come forth, O skulker of the shadows!” he called. “Hither, false reader of the stars. I have a word for your ears—Bismillah!”

A dozen armed figures leaped from the bush in front of him. Something struck the mail on his chest with a ringing clang, and a spear dropped at his feet. Another whizzed past his head.

Abdul Dost gave back apace, warding off the sword-blades that searched for his throat. Excellent swordsman that he was, he was hard-pressed by the number of his assailants. A sweeping blow of his scimitar half-severed the head of the nearest man, but another weapon bit into his leg over the knee, and his startled horse reared back, making him half-lose his balance.

At this point Khlit spurred his horse at the foes of Abdul Dost, riding down one and forcing the others back.

“Mount!” he cried over his shoulder to the Afghan.

Abdul Dost’s high-strung Arab, however, had been grazed by a spear and was temporarily unmanageable. Khlit covered his companion, avoiding the blows of the attackers cleverly. They pressed their onset savagely.

Abdul Dost, cursing his injured leg, tossed aside the reins of his useless mount and stepped forward to Khlit’s side, his sword poised.

Then, while the two faced the ten during one of those involuntary pauses that occur in hand-to-hand fights, a new element entered into the conflict at the crossroads.

There was a sharp twang, a whistling hum in the air, and one of the assailants flung up his arms with a grunt. In the half-light Khlit saw that an arrow had transfixed the man’s head, its feathered end sticking grotesquely from his cheek.

A second shaft and a third sped swiftly, each finding its mark on their foes. One man dropped silently to earth, clutching his chest; a second turned and spun dizzily backward into the bush.

One of the surviving few flung up his shield fearfully in time to have an arrow pierce it cleanly and plant itself in his shoulder.

There was something inexorable and deadly in the silent flight of arrows. Those who could stand, in the group of raiders, turned and leaped into the protecting shadows.

Khlit and Abdul Dost heard them running, breaking through the vines. They stared curiously at the five forms outstretched in the road. On the forehead of one who faced the moon, a shaft through his breast, they saw the white caste-mark of Jagannath.

Already the five had ceased moving.

“Come into the shadow, O heedless riders of the North,” called a stalwart voice.

Khlit turned his horse, and was followed by Abdul Dost, who by this time had recovered his mount.

Under the trees on the farther side of the road they found Sawal Das, chuckling. The archer surveyed them, his small head on one side.

“Horses and sword-blades are an ill protection against the spears that fly in the dark,” he remarked reprovingly.

“How came you here?” muttered Abdul Dost, who was in an ill humor, what with his hurt and the events of the night.

“Ohé—Oho!” Sawal Das laughed. “Am I not the right-hand man of my lord, the Rawul? Does he not ride hither with his bride tomorrow? Thus, I watch the road.

“A short space ago when the rain ceased I heard an ill-omened group talking at the crossroads. There was a half-caste feringha who said that the two riders would return to seek the Thaneswar path—”

“The astrologer!” muttered Abdul Dost, binding his girdle over his thigh.

“Even so, my lord. Who is he but a spy of the temple? Ah, my bold swordsman, there be jewels in your turban and sword-hilt.

“Likewise—so Bhimal whispered—the low-born followers of the temple have orders to keep armed men from Thaneswar gate. I know not. But I waited with bow strung, believing that there would be sport—

“Bravely and well have you aided us,” said Khlit shortly in his broken Mogholi. “I saw others moving in the bush—”

“Perchance the evil-faced Kurral and his friends,” assented Sawal Das, who understood.

“I will not forget,” grunted the Cossack “Nay.”

The archer took his rein in hand.

“This is no spot for our talk. I will lead you to Thaneswar, where you may sleep in peace.”

He led them forward, humming softly to himself.

“Men of Jagannath have been slain,” he murmured over his shoulder. “That will rouse the anger of the priests. Already the hot blood is in their foreheads at thought of the honor and wealth of my lord the Rawul. We will not speak of this, lest a cloud sully the bride-bringing of my lord.

“Verily,” he said more softly, “did Perwan Singh, the chanter of epics, say that before long this place will be as it was in the days of the Pandas and the higher gods. Aye, Perwan Singh sang that blood would cover the mountains and bones will fill the valleys. Death will walk in the shadows of the men of Thaneswar.”

Now, after they had gone, a form scurried from the thicket down the muddy highway, a heavy pack on its back. It paused not, nor looked behind. Merghu, the astrologer, was leaving Kukushetra.

III

Thereis One who knows the place of the birds who fly through the sky; who perceives what has been and what will be; who knows the track of the wind

He is named by many names; yet he is but one.

Hymn to Vishnu

Khlit was disappointed in the sight of Thaneswar castle. On the day following the affray of the crossroads the Cossack was early afoot, and as the retainers were busied in preparing for the coming of their lord, he was able to make the rounds of the place undisturbed save by a few curious glances.

The abode of Rawul Matap Rao was not a castle in the true sense of the word. In the midst of the wheat fields of the province of Kukushetra a low wall of dried mud framed an enclosure of several buildings. The enclosure was beaten smooth by the feet of many animals, and against the wall were the stables, the elephant-stockade, the granaries, and the quarters of the stable-servants and the mahouts.

In the center of the site grew the garden of Thaneswar, a jumble of wild flowers, fern trees and miniature deodars cleverly cultivated by gardeners whose hereditary task it was to tend the spot and keep clean the paths through the verdure, artfully designed to appear as if a haphazard growth of nature.

An open courtyard ornamented by a great pool of water shad-owed by cypresses fronted the garden. At the rear of the courtyard, it was true, a solid granite building stood—the hall of the Rawul.

Pillars of the same stone, however, supported a thatched roof, under which ran layers of cane. Numerous openings in the granite wall provided sleeping-terraces.

The inner partitions were mainly latticework, and only one ceiling—that of the main hall—was of stronger material than

the thatch. This was of cedar, inlaid with ivory and mosaic, and brightly painted.

To Khlit, accustomed to the rugged stone structures of Central Asia, the small palace was but a poor fortress. He had no eye for the throng of diligent servants who were spreading clean cotton cloths over the floor mattresses or placing flowers in the latticework.

“The temple of the hill god, yonder,” he muttered to Sawal Das, who had joined him, “was stronger.”

The archer fingered his mustache.

“Aye,” he admitted restlessly. “I would that the Rawul had kept the heavy taxes upon the peasants, so that the armed retainers of Thaneswar would be more numerous and better equipped. I have scarce two-score able men under me. And my lord has not many more men-at-arms to attend him. He would give the very gold of his treasury to the peasants, if need be.

“When I say that we should have more swords—when yonder eagle—” he pointed to the glittering dome of the temple—“cries out in greed—he laughs and swears that a word will rouse the peasantry and villagers of Kukushetra on our behalf. But I know not.”

He shrugged his shoulders and dismissed his forebodings.

“Ah, well, warrior, who would dare to lift hand against Rawul Matap Rao, the last of the Thaneswar clan? Come, here is the choicest defender of Thaneswar, with his companions.”

Sawal Das pointed to the stockade in one corner of the great enclosure. Here a half-dozen elephants were being groomed for the reception of the chieftain and his bride.

It was the first time that Khlit had seen the beasts nearby and he strode over to gaze at them. Seeing his absorption in the sight, the archer left to attend to his own affairs.

First the elephants were washed down well in a muddy pool outside the enclosure, reached by a wide gate through the wall. Then their heads, trunks and ears were painted a vivid orange,

shaded off to green at the tips of the flapping ears and at the end of the trunk.

Then crimson silk cloths were hung over their barrels, and a triangular piece of green velvet was placed over their heads between the eyes. This done, silk cords with silver bells attached were thrown about their massive necks.

The largest of the huge animals, however, was attired in full war panoply. Bhimal, who had come with several of the house-hold to gaze at the sight, touched Khlit’s elbow.

“Behold Asil Rumi,” he said in Mogholi.

Khlit and Abdul Dost had treated the lame peasant kindly— something rare in his experience—and he was grateful.

“The favorite elephant. He was a gift to the grandfather of the Rawul from a raja of Rinthambur. He has not his match for strength in this land. He is mightier than the storm-wind, which is the breath of the angry gods, for he can break down with his head a tree as big as my body.”

The peasant sighed.

“Oftentimes, when the Rawul hunted tiger toward Rinthambur, Asil Rumi has trod down my wheat. But always the Rawul flung me silver to pay for the damage. A just man.”

Khlit glanced at the old peasant.

“Have you left your farm?”

“Is it not Jagannath’s? I would not dishonor the faith of my dead brother. See!” he cried.

Asil Rumi, with a thunderous internal rumbling, had planted his trunk against a post of the stockade a few yards from them. The elephant wore his battle armor—a bronze plate, heavily bossed, over his skull, stout leather sheets down either side, and twin sword-blades tied to his curving tusks.

Under the impact of the elephant’s bulk the post creaked. Khlit saw it bend and heard it crack. The house servants ran back.

Asil Rumi leaned farther forward and the post—a good yard thick—gave as easily before him as an aspen. Then his mahout ran up. Khlit was surprised to hear the man talk to the beast

urgently. The mahout held a silver prong, but this he did not use. Asil Rumi drew back.

At a second word from his master, the elephant coiled his trunk about the post and straightened it. Then he stood tranquil, his huge ears shaking, muttering to himself.

“How is it,” asked Khlit, “that a small man such as that can command a beast like Asil Rumi? The beast could slay him with a touch of the tusk.”

“Aye,” assented Bhimal gravely, “the father of this mahout was slain by Asil Rumi when he was angry. But today he only plays. So long as this man speaks to him, Asil Rumi will obey because of his love for the man.”

And Bhimal told how two generations ago the elephant had taken part in one of the battles of Rajasthan. The standard of the warlike Rinthambur clan had been placed on his back, and his mahout had led him well into the van of the Rájputs, ordering him to stand in a certain spot.

The battle had been closely fought about the beast, and the mahout slain. The elephant had been wounded in many places and the greater part of the Rinthambur Rájputs slain about him. Still Asil Rumi had remained standing where he was placed.

The Rájputs had won the battle, so Bhimal said. The soldiers had left the field during the pursuit, but Asil Rumi had stayed by the body of his mahout, refusing food or water for three days in his sorrow for the man who had been his master.

Then they had brought the boy who was the son of the mahout. Him the elephant had recognized and obeyed.

“Asil Rumi will go to meet the bride of Rinthambur,” concluded Bhimal. “She will mount his howdah, with her lord. It will be a goodly sight.”

Presently came Abdul Dost, resplendent in a fresh tunic and girdle, to announce that it was time they should groom their horses for the ride to meet the Rawul.

But Khlit remained in the elephant-stockade watching the beasts until the household cavalcade had actually mounted,

when he left the animals that had so stirred his interest. He washed his face hastily in the garden pool, drew his belt tighter about his khalat, pulled at his mustache and was ready to ride with the others.

Bhimal excused himself to Sawul Das from accompanying the leaders of the peasants, saying that he was too lame to walk with the rest. Khlit, however, noticed that Bhimal kept pace with them as far as the crossroads.

The bodies had been cleared away, and the feet of men and beasts had obscured the imprint of blood here. Bhimal lingered.

“So,” said the Cossack grimly, “you go to Jagannath, not to your lord.”

“Aye,” said the peasant simply. “In the temple above is he who is greater than any lord. He is master of death and life. My brother died in his worship. Wherefore should I not go?”

Khlit lingered behind the other horsemen, scanning Bhimal curiously. As the elephants had been strange beasts to him, so Bhimal and his kind were a new race of men.

It was Khlit’s habit to ponder what was new to him. In this he differed from Abdul Dost.

“Have many of the Thaneswar peasants gone to the temple festival?” he inquired, noticing that the foot retainers with the cavalcade were few.

“Aye.”

“What is the festival?”

“It is the great festival of Jagannath. Janam, the holy priests call it. They say it is to honor the birth of the god. It has always been.”

“Will the Rawul and his woman go?”

Khlit did not care to revisit the temple after the episode of the night before.

“Nay. The Rawul has no love for the priests of the temple. He has said—so it is whispered through the fields—that they are not the true worshipers of Vishnu.”

Down the breeze came the sound of the temple drums and cymbals. Khlit thought grimly that he also had no love for the servants of Vishnu.

“What is this Jagannath?” he asked indifferently.

To Khlit the worship of an idol by dance or song was a manifestation of Satan. He was a Christian of simple faith. His tone, however, aroused the patient Hindu.

“Jagannath!” he cried, and his faded eyes gleamed. “Jagannath is the god of the poor. All men stand equal before him. The raja draws his car beside the pariah. His festival lasts as many days as I have fingers, and every day there is food for his worshipers. It is the holy time when a bride is offered to jagannath.”

He pointed up to the temple.

“A woman is chosen, and she is blessed. She is called the bride of Jagannath. Food and flowers are given her. She rides in the front of the great car which we build with our hands when Jagannath himself comes from his temple and is borne in the car to the ruins of the holy edifice, which was once the home of the older gods themselves.

“The woman—so Kurral said—abides one night in the shrine of the god. Then Jagannath reveals himself to her. He tells the omens for the coming year, whether the crops will be good, the rains heavy and the cows healthy. Then this is told to us. It is verily the word of the god.

“Ah!” He glanced around. “I am late.”

He hobbled off up the path, leaning on his stick, and Khlit spurred after the others, dismissing from his mind for a time what he had heard about the festival of Janam.

He soon forgot Bhimal in the confusion attending the arrival of the Rawul, and the banquet that night.

There was good cheer in Thaneswar. The young Rawul with his bride and his companions feasted on the gallery overlooking the main hall. The soldiery and retainers shared the feast at the foot of the hall, or without on the garden terrace.

Khlit and Abdul Dost had discovered that wine was to be had by those who so desired, and seated themselves in a corner of the hall with a generous portion of the repast and silver cups of sherbet between them.

“Eh,” cried the mansabdar, “these Hindus lack not a free hand. Did you mark how the Rawul scattered gold, silver and gems among the throng? The beauty of his bride has intoxicated him.”

Khlit ate in silence. The music of Hindustan—a shrill clatter of instruments—held no charm for him. Abdul Dost, however, was accustomed to the melodies and nodded his head in time, his appreciation heightened by the wine.

“Last night,” he said bluntly, “I spoke in haste, for I was angry. You are my brother in arms. By Allah, I would cut the cheek-bones from him who dared to say what I did.”

He emptied his cup and cast a pleased glance over the merry crowd.

“It was a good word you spoke when Sawal Das led you to the horse of the Rawul and spoke your name to Matap Rao. Eh, Matap Rao asked whether you had a rank as a chieftain.”

He smiled.

“You responded that a chieftain’s rank is like to the number of men who will follow his standard in battle. That was well said.

“I have heard tales that you once were leader of as many thou-sands as Matap Rao numbers tens among his men. Is that the truth? It was in Tatary, in the Horde.”

“That time is past,” said Khlit.

“Aye. Perchance, though, such things may arise again. Sawal Das says that there may be fighting. Yet I scent it not. What think you?”

Abdul Dost glanced at Khlit searchingly. Much he had heard of the Cossack’s craft in war.

Yet since their meeting Khlit had shown no desire to take up arms. Rather, he had seemed well content to be unmolested. This did not accord with the spirit of the fiery Afghan, to whom the rumor of battle was as the scent of life itself.

“I think,” said Khlit, “that Matap Rao had done better to leave guards at the gate.”

The Afghan shrugged his shoulders. Then lifted his head at the sound of a ringing voice. It was aged Perwan Singh, and his song was the song of Arjun that begins:

As starlight in the Summer skies,

So is the brightness of a woman’s eyes—

Unmatched is she!

Silence fell upon the hall and the outer corridors. All eyes were turned to the gallery where behind a curtain the young bride of Thaneswar sat beside the feast of Matap Rao and his companions, among them Perwan Singh.

The sunbeam of the morning shows

Within her path a withered lotus bud,

A dying rose.

Her footsteps wander in the sacred place

Where stand her brethren, the ethereal race

For ages dead!

A young noble of the household parted the curtain at the song’s end. He was a slender man, dark-faced, twin strings of pearls wound in his turban and about his throat—Serwul Jain, of Thaneswar.

“Men of Thaneswar,” he cried ringingly, “the Lotus Face is now our queen. Happy are we in the sight of the flower of Rinthambur. Look upon Retha, wife of your lord.”

There was a murmur of delight as the woman stood beside him. She was of an even height with the boy, the olive face unveiled, the black eyes wide and tranquil, the dark hair empty of jewels except for pearls over the forehead. Her thin silk robe, bound about the waist and drawn up from feet to shoulder, showed the tight underbodice over her breast and the outline of the splendid form that had been termed “tiger-waisted.”

“Verily,” said Abdul Dost, “she is fair.”

But Khlit had fallen asleep during the song. The minstrelsy of Hindustan held no charms for him, and he had eaten well.

A stir in the hall, followed by a sudden silence, aroused the Cossack. He was wide awake on the instant, scenting something unwonted. Abdul Dost was on his feet, as indeed were all in the hall. Within the doorway stood a group of Brahmans, surrounded by representatives of the higher castes of Kukushetra.

The castle retainer stood at gaze, curious and expectant. Through the open gate a breath of air stirred the flames of the candles. “What seek you?” asked Serwul Jain from the gallery.

“We have come from the temple of Kukushetra, from the holy shrine of the Lord of the World,” responded the foremost priest. “Rawul Matap Rao we seek. We have a message for his ears.”

By now the chieftain was beside Retha. The eyes of the throng went from him to the Brahman avidly. It was the first time the Brahmans had honored Thaneswar castle with their presence.

“I am here,” said the Rawul briefly. “Speak.”

The Brahman advanced a few paces, drawing his robe closer about him. The servants gave back respectfully.

“This, O Rawul,” he began, “is the festival of Janam. Pilgrims have come from every corner of the Punjab; aye, from the Siwalik hills and the border of Rajasthan to the temple of Jagannath. Yet you remain behind your castle wall.”

He spoke sharply, clearly. No anger was apparent in his voice, but a stern reproach. Behind him Khlit saw the gaunt figure of Kurral.

“The day of my wedding is just past,” responded Matap Rao quietly, “and I abide here to hold the feast. My place is in my own hall, not at the temple.”

“So be it,” said the priest.

He flung his head back and his sonorous voice filled the chamber.

“I bear a message from the shrine. Though you have forgotten the reverence due to the Lord of the World, though you have said harsh words concerning his temple, though you have neglected

the holy rites and slandered the divine mysteries—even though you have forsworn the worship of Jagannath—the Lord of the World forgives and honors you.”

He paused as if to give his words weight with the attentive throng.

“For the space of years your path and that of the temple have divided. Aye, quarrels have been and blood shed. Last night five servants of the temple were slain on the high road without your gate.”

A surprised murmur greeted this. News of the fight had been kept secret by the priests until now, and Sawal Das had held his tongue.

“Yet Jagannath forgives. Matap Rao, your path will now lead to the temple. For tonight the bride of Jagannath is chosen. And the woman chosen is—as is the custom—fairest in the land of Kukushetra. Retha of Rinthambur.”

Complete silence enveloped the crowd. Men gaped and started. Youthful Serwul Jain started and clutched at his sword. The lean hand of Perwan Singh arrested midway as he stroked his beard. The girl flashed a startled glance at her lord and drew the silk veil across her face.

A slow flush rose into the face of Matap Rao and departed, leaving him pale. He drew a deep breath and the muscles of his figure tightened until he was at his full height.

To be selected as the bride of the god on the Janam festival was held a high honor. It had been shared in the past by some of the most noted women of the land. The choice of the temple had never been denied.

But in the mild face of the Rawul was the shadow of fierce anger, swiftly mastered. He looked long into the eyes of the waiting priest while the crowd hung upon his word.

“Whose is the choice?” he asked slowly.

“Nagir Jan himself uttered the decree. The holy priest was inspired by the thought that Retha, wife of the Rawul, should

hear the prophecy of the god for the coming year. Who but she should tell the omens to Kukushetra?”

Matap Rao lifted his hand.

“Then let Nagir Jan come to Thaneswar,” he responded. “Let him voice his request himself. I will not listen to those of lower caste.”

IV

Upon the departure of the priests the curtain across the gallery was drawn. A tumult arose in the hall. Many peasants departed. The serving women fled back to their quarters, and the house retainers lingered, watching the gallery.

Abdul Dost leaned back against the wall, smiling at Khlit.

“By the beard of my grandsire! If I had such a bride as Retha of Rinthambur I would yield her not to any muttering Hindu priest.”

He explained briefly to Khlit what had passed. The Cossack shook his head moodily.

“There will be ill sleeping in Thaneswar this night, Abdul Dost,” he said grimly. “The quarrel between priest and chieftain cuts deeper than you think.”

“It is fate. The Rawul may not refuse the honor.”

Khlit stroked his gray mustache, making no response. The prime of his life he had spent in waging war with the reckless ardor of the Cossack against the enemies of the Cross. The wrong done to Bhimal had not escaped his attention. Nor had the one glimpse of the Kukushetra temple been agreeable to his narrow but heartfelt idea of a place of worship.

“When all is said,” meditated the Afghan, “this is no bread of our eating.”

“Nay, Abdul Dost. Yet we have eaten the salt of Matap Rao.”

“Verily, that is so,” grunted the Afghan. “Well, we shall soon see what is written. What is written, is written. Not otherwise.”

Khlit seated himself beside his comrade and waited. Soon came Sawal Das through an opening in the wall behind them. Seeing them, he halted, breathing hard, for he had been running.

“Aie!” he cried. “It was an ill thought that led Matap Rao to thin the ranks of his armed men. Nagir Jan has watched Thaneswar ripen like a citron in the sun. He has yearned after the wheat fields and the tax paid by the peasants. Truly is he named the snake. See, how he strikes tonight.

“Aie! He is cunning. His power is like that of the furious daevas. His armor is hidden, yet he is more to be feared than if a thousand swords waved about him.”

Abdul Dost laughed.

“If that is the way the horse runs, archer, you could serve your master well by planting a feathered shaft under the ear of the priest.”

Sawal Das shook his head.

“Fool!” he cried. “The Rawul would lose caste and life itself were he to shed the blood of a higher priest of Jagannath. He would be left for the burial dogs to gnaw. The person of Nagir Jan and those with him is inviolate.”

“Then must Matap Rao yield up his bride.”

The archer’s white teeth glinted under his mustache. “Never will a Rawul of Thaneswar do that.”

Both men were surprised at the anger of the slender archer. They knew little of the true meaning of the festival of Jagannath.

“Perchance he will flee, Sawal Das. Khlit and I will mount willingly to ride with him. Your shafts would keep pursuers at a distance.”

“I have been the rounds of the castle enclosure,” observed Sawal Das. “The watchers of the temple are posted at every gate-way and even along the wall itself. Their spies are in the stables. Without the enclosure the peasants gather together. They have been told to arm.”

“On behalf of their lord?”

“Vishnu alone knows their hearts.”

Abdul Dost reached down and gripped the arm of Sawal Das.

“Ho, little archer,” he growled, “if it comes to sword-strokes— we have eaten the salt of your master, and we are in your debt. We will stand at your side.”

“I thank you.”

The Hindu’s eyes lighted. Then his face fell.

“But what avail sword-strokes against Jagannath? How can steel cut the tendrils of his temple that coil about Thaneswar? Nay; unless my lord can overmaster him with fair words it will go ill with us.”

He shook both fists over his head in impotent wrath.

“May the curse of Siva and Vishnu fall upon the master of lies! He has waited until the people of the countryside are aflame with zeal. He has stayed his hand until the Lotus Face came to Thaneswar as bride. Did not he ask to look upon her when she rode hither? Aie, he is like a barbed shaft in our flesh.”

Came Bhimal, limping, to their corner.

“Nagir Jan is at the gate, Sawal Das,” he muttered. “And be-hind him are the peasantry, soldiers and scholars of Kukushetra, many of them armed, to receive Retha as the chosen bride.”

The archer departed. Bhimal squatted beside them, silent, his head hanging on his chest. Abdul Dost glanced at Khlit.

“Your pony is in the stable,” he whispered. “Perchance if you ride not forth now the going will be ill.”

“And so is yours, Abdul Dost,” grunted Khlit. “Why do you not mount him?”

The Afghan smiled and they both settled back to await what was to come.

Nagir Jan entered the hall alone. Matap Rao advanced a few paces to meet him. Neither made a salaam. Their eyes met and the priest spoke first, while those in the hall listened.

“I have come for the bride of the Janam. Even as you asked it, I have come. Tonight she must bathe and be cleansed of all impurity. The women of the wardrobe and the strewers of flowers will attend her, to prepare her to mount the sacred car on the morrow. Then will she sit beside the god himself. And on that night will she kneel before him in the chamber in the ruins and the god will speak to her and manifest himself in the holy mystery. Where is the woman Retha?”

Matap Rao smiled, although his face was tense and his fingers quivered.

“Will you take the veil from your face? Will you withdraw the cloak from your words, Nagir Jan?”

The cold eyes of the priest flickered. His strong face showed no sign of the anger he must have felt.

“Nagir Jan, I will speak the truth. Will you answer me so?” “Say on,” assented the Brahman.

The young lord of Thaneswar raised his voice until it reached the far corners of the hall.

“Why do you hold me in despite, Nagir Jan? You have said that I am without faith. Yet do I say that my faith is as great as yours. Speak!”

A murmur went through the watchers. The youths standing behind Matap Rao glanced at each other, surprised by the bold course the Rawul had taken.

“Does a servant of Jagannath speak lies?” Nagir Jan smiled. “Is the wisdom of the temple a house of straw, to break before the first wind? Nay.”

He paused, meditating. He spoke clearly, forcibly in the manner of one who knew how to sway the hearts of his hearers.

“Is not Jagannath Lord of the World, Matap Rao? In him is mighty Vishnu thrice incarnate; in him are the virtues of Siva, protector of the soul; and the virtues of Balabhadra and Subhadra. Since the birth of Ram, Jagannath has been. The power of Kali, All-Destroyer, is the lightning in his hand. Is not this the truth?”

Nagir Jan bowed his head. Matap Rao made no sign.

“Surely you do not question the holiness of Jagannath, protector of the poor, guardian of the pilgrim and master of our souls?” continued the priest. “Nay, who am I but a lowly sweeper of the floor before the mighty god?”

He stretched out a thin hand.

“Jagannath casts upon you the light of his mercy, Rawul. He ordains that your faithlessness be forgiven. Thus does Jagannath weld in one the twin rulers of Kukushetra.

“If you seek forgiveness, Kukushetra will prosper and the hearts of its men be uplifted. To this end has Jagannath claimed the beauty of Retha. Your wife will be the bond that will bind your soul to its forgotten faith.”

He smiled and lowered his hand. Dignified and calm, he seemed as he said, the friend of the Rawul.

“Is not this the truth, Matap Rao? Aye, it is so.”

The priest ceased speaking and waited for the other to reply.

In his speech Nagir Jan had avoided the issue of Matap Rao’s faith. He had spoken only of the claim of Jagannath. And a swift glance at his hearers showed him that his words had gone home. Many heads nodded approvingly.

The Rawul would not dare, so thought Nagir Jan, to attack the invisible might of Jagannath. By invoking the divinity of the god, Nagir Jan had made Matap Rao powerless to debate. And personal debate, he guessed, was the hope of Matap Rao.

Something of triumph crept into his cold face. Matap Rao was thoughtful, his eyes troubled. The chieftain was an ardent Hindu. How could he renounce his faith?

Abruptly his head lifted and he met the eyes of the priest.

“What you have said of Jagannath, incarnation of Vishnu, is verily the truth, Nagir Jan,” responded the Rawul. “Yet it is not all the truth. You have not said that the priests of Jagannath are false. They are false servants of Vishnu. They are not true followers of the One who is master of the gods.”

He spoke brokenly, as a man torn by mingled feeling.

“Aye. Wherefore do the priests of Kukushetra perform the rites in costly robes? Or anoint themselves with oil? With perfume, with camphor and sandal? Instead of the sacred Vedas, they chant the prem sagar—the ocean of love. The pictures and images of the temple are those of lust.”

His voice was firmer now, with the ring of conviction.

“Aye, you are faithless servants. The rich garments that are offered by pilgrims to the gods, you drape once upon the sacred images. Then you wear them on your unclean bodies.

“What becomes of the stores of food yielded by peasants for the meals of Jagannath? Four times a day do you present food to the wooden face of the god; afterward you feast well upon it.”

Nagir Jan showed no change of expression, but he drew back as if from contamination.

“You have forgotten the wise teachings of Chaitanya, who declared that a priest is like to a warrior,” continued the Rawul. “The gosain preached that sanctity is gained by inward warfare, by self-denial and privation.

“You of Kukushetra follow the doctrine of Vallabha Swami. He it was who said that gratified desire uplifts the soul. And so do you live. What are the handmaidens of Jagannath but the prostitutes of the temple and its people?”

An uneasy stir among the listeners greeted this. Many heads were shaken.

“It is the truth I speak,” cried the Rawul, turning to them. “Nagir Jan claims to be the friend of the poverty-afflicted. Is it so? He seeks devotees among the merchants and masters of wealth.

“He takes the fields of the peasants by forfeiture, contrary to law. He has taken much of my land. He seeks all of Thaneswar.” The young chieftain spread out his arms.

“My spirit has followed the way of Chaitanya. I believe that bloodshed is pollution. My household divinity is the image of the sun, which was the emblem of my oldest forebears, whose fields were made fertile by its light. Is it not truth that a man may uplift his spirit even to the footstool of the One among the gods by bahkti—faith?”

While the watchers gazed, some frowning, some admiring, Abdul Dost touched the arm of Khlit and nodded approvingly.

“An infidel,” he whispered, “but—by the ninety-nine holy names—a man of faith.”

Nagir Jan drew his robe closer about him, and spoke pityingly. “Blind!” he accused. “Does not the god dwell in the temple?”

“Then,” responded Matap Rao, “whose dwelling is the world?” He pointed at the priest. “What avails it to wash your mouth, to mutter prayers on the pilgrimage if there is no faith in your

heart, Nagir Jan? For my faith, you seek to destroy me, to gain the lands of Thaneswar. And so you have asked Retha as the bride of Jagannath.”

The shaven head of the priest drew back with the swift motion of a snake about to strike. But Matap Rao spoke before him.

“Well you know, Nagir Jan, that I will not yield Retha. If it means my death, Retha will not go to the temple.”

“Thus you defy the choice of Jagannath?”

“Aye,” said Matap Rao, and his voice shook. “For I know what few know. Among the ruins will the bride of Jagannath remain to-morrow night—where you and those who believe with you have said the god will appear as a man and foretell the omens, in the mystery of Janam. But he who will come to the woman is no god but a man, chosen by lot among the priests—perhaps you, Nagir Jan.”

His tense face flushed darkly. He lowered his voice, but in the silence it could be heard clearly.

“The rite of Janam will be performed. But a man violates the body of the bride. It is a priest. And he prophesies the omens. That is why, O Nagir Jan, I have called the priests false.

“Never will the Lotus Face become the bride of Jagannath,” he added quietly.

“Impious! Idolator!”

The head of Nagir Jan shot forward with each word.

“It is a lie, spoken in madness. But the madness will not save you.” His eyes shone cruelly, and his teeth drew back from the lips.

“You have blasphemed Jagannath, O Rawul. You have denied to Jagannath his bride.” He turned swiftly. “Thaneswar is ac-cursed. Who among you will linger here? Who will come with me to serve Jagannath? The god will claim his bride. Woe to those who aid him not—”

He passed swiftly from the hall and a full half of the peasants as well as many of the house-servants slipped after him. The soldiers around the Rawul stood where they were.

Rawul Matap Rao gazed after the fugitives with a wry smile. Old Perwan Singh laid down his vina and girded a sword-belt about his bony frame. Serwul Jain drew his scimitar and flung the scabbard away.

“The battle-storm is at the gate of Thaneswar,” he cried in his high voice. “Ho—who will shed his blood for the Lotus Face? You have heard the words of your lord.”

A hearty shout from the companion nobles answered him, echoed by a gruffer acclaim from the soldiery, led by Sawal Das. Matap Rao’s eyes lighted but his smile was sad.

“Aye, blood will be shed,” he murmured. “It is pollution—yet we who die will not bear the stain of the sin.”

He laid an arm across the bent shoulder of the minstrel. “Even thus you foretold, old singer of epics. Will you sing also of the fate of Thaneswar?”

Abdul Dost spoke quickly to Khlit of what had passed. His face was alight with the excitement of conflict. But the shaggy face of Khlit showed no answering gleam.

“There will be good sword-blows, O wayfarer,” cried the Muslim.

“Come, here is a goodly company. We will scatter the rout of temple-scum! Eh!—what say you?”

Khlit remained passive, wearing every indication of strong disgust.

“Why did not yonder stripling chieftain prepare the castle for siege?” he growled. “Dog of the devil—he did naught but speak words.”

He remained seated where he was while Abdul Dost ran to join the forces mustering under Serwul Jain at the castle gate. He shook his head moodily.

But as the Rawul, armed and clad in mail, passed by, Khlit reached up and plucked his sleeve.

“Where, O chieftain,” he asked bluntly, “is Asil Rumi, de-fender of Thaneswar? He is yet armored—aye—the elephants are your true citadel—”

Not understanding Mogholi, and impatient of the strange warrior’s delay, the Rawul shook him off and passed on. Khlit looked after him aggrievedly.

Then he shook his wide shoulders, yawned, girded his belt tighter and departed on a quest for food among the remnants of the banquet.

It was Khlit’s custom, whenever possible, to eat before em-barking on any dangerous enterprise.

V

And they paused to harken to a voice which said, “Hasten.”

It was the voice of the assembler of men, of him who spies out a road for many, who goes alone to the mighty waters. It was Yama, the Lord of Death, and he said:

“Hasten to thy home, and to thy fathers.”

Nagir Jan was not seen again at Thaneswar that night. But his followers heard his tidings and a multitude gathered on the road. Those who accompanied the Brahman from the hall could give only an incoherent account of the words Matap Rao had spoken. The crowd, however, had been aroused by the priests in the temple.

It was enough for them that the Rawul had blasphemed against the name of Jagannath. They were stirred by religious zeal, at the festival of the god.

Moreover, as in all mobs, the lawless element coveted the chance to despoil the castle. Among the worshipers were many, well armed, who assembled merely for the prospect of plunder. They joined forces with the more numerous party.

The ranks of the pilgrims and worshipers who had been sent down from the temple by the Brahmans was swelled by an in-flux of villagers and peasants from the fields—ignorant men who followed blindly those of higher caste.

The higher priests absented themselves, but several of the lower orders such as Kurral directed the onset against the castle. Already the enclosure was surrounded. Torches blazed in

the fields without the mud wall. The wall itself was easily surmounted at several points before the garrison could muster to defend it—even if they had been numerous enough to do so.

“Jagannath!” cried the pilgrims, running toward the central garden, barehanded and aflame with zeal, believing that they were about to avenge a mortal sin on the part of one who had scorned the gods.

“Jagannath!” echoed the vagrants and mercenary soldiers, fingering their weapons, eyes burning with the lust of spoil.

“The bride of Jagannath!” shouted the priests among the throng. “Harm her not, but slay all who defend her.”

Torches flickered through the enclosure and in the garden. Frightened stable servants fled to the castle, or huddled among the beasts. The neighing of startled horses was drowned by the trumpeting of the elephants. A mahout who drew his weapon was cut down by the knives of the peasants.

But it was toward the palace that the assailants pressed through the pleasure garden, and the palace was ill-designed for defense. Wide doorways and latticed arbors guided the mob to the entrances. The clash of steel sounded in the uproar, and the shrill scream of a wounded woman pierced it like a knife-blade.

The bright moon outlined the scene clearly.

Khlit, standing passive within the main hall, could command at once a balcony overlooking the gardens and the front gate. He saw several of the rushing mob fall as the archers in the house launched their shafts.

A powerful blacksmith, half-naked, appeared on the balcony, whither he had climbed, dagger between his teeth. A loyal peas-ant rushed at him with a sickle, and paused at arm’s reach.

“Jagannath!” shouted the giant, stepping forward.

The coolie shrank back and tossed away his makeshift weapon, crying loudly for mercy. He stilled his cry at a melodious voice. “Chaitanya! Child of the sun!”

It was old Perwan Singh, walking tranquilly along the tiles of the gallery in the full moonlight. The smith hesitated, then

advanced to meet him, crouching. The minstrel struck down the dagger awkwardly with his sword. Meanwhile the recalcitrant peasant had crept behind him, and with a quick jerk wrested away the blade.

Perwan Singh lifted his arm, throwing back his head. He did not try to flee. The black giant surveyed him, teeth agrin, and, with a grunt, plunged his dagger into the old man’s neck. Both he and the coolie grasped the minstrel’s body before it could fall, stripping the rich gold bangles from arms and ankles of their victim and tearing the pearls from his turban-folds.

Before they could release the body an arrow whizzed through the air, followed swiftly by another. The giant coughed and flung up his arms, falling across the body of the coolie. The three forms lay on the tiles, their limbs moving weakly.

Sawal Das, fitting a fresh shaft to string, trotted by along the balcony, peering out into the garden.

The rush of the mob had by now resolved itself into a hand-to-hand struggle at every door to the castle. The blood-lust, once aroused, stilled all other feelings except that of fanatic zeal. Unarmed men grappled with each other, who had worked side by side in the fields the day before.

A woman slave caught up a javelin and thrust at the assailants, screaming the while. For the most part the house-servants had remained loyal to Matap Rao, whom they loved.

By now, however, all within the castle were struggling for their lives. A soldier slew the woman, first catching her ill-aimed weapon coolly on his shield. Khlit saw a second woman borne off by the peasants.

At the main gate the disciplined defenders under Matap Rao, aided well by that excellent swordsman, Abdul Dost, had beaten off the onset. Serwul Jain and several of the younger nobles had been ordered to safeguard Retha.

They stood in the rear of the main hall, the girl tranquil and proud, her face unveiled, her eyes following Matap Rao in the

throng. The Rawul, by birth of the Kayasth, or student, caste, proved himself a brave man although unskilled.

It was when the first assault had been beaten off and the de-fenders were gaining courage that the crackle of flames was heard.

Agents of the priesthood among the mob had devoted their attention to firing the thatch roof at the corners. Matap Rao sent bevies of house-servants up to the terraces on the roof, but the flames gained. A shout proclaimed the triumph of the mob.

“Jagannath!” they cried. “The god claims his bride.”

“Lo,” screamed a pilgrim, “the fire spirits aid us. The daevas aid us.”

Panic, that nemesis of ill-disciplined groups, seized on many slaves and peasants who were in the castle.

“Thaneswar burns!” cried a woman, wringing her hands. “The gods have doomed us!” muttered a stout coolie, fleeing down the hall.

Serwul Jain sprang aside to cut him down.

“Back, dogs!” shouted the boy. “Death is without.”

“Aie! We will yield our bodies to Jagannath,” was the cry that greeted him.

“Jagannath!”

Those outside caught up the cry.

“Yield to the god.”

The backbone of the defense was broken. Slaves threw down their arms. A frightened tide surged back and forth between the rooms. A Brahman appeared in the hall and ran toward Retha silently. A noble at her side stepped between, taking the rush of the priest on his shield.

But the Brahman’s fall only dispirited the slaves the more.

Khlit saw groups of half-naked coolies climbing into the windows —the wide windows that served to cool Thaneswar in the Summer heat. He walked down the hall, looking for Abdul Dost.

He saw the thinned body of soldiers at the gate struggle and part before the press of attackers. Then Bhimal, who had re-

mained crouched beside him during the earlier fight, started up and ran, limping, at Serwul Jain.

“Jagannath!” cried the peasant hoarsely. “My brother’s god.”

He grappled with the noble from behind and flung him to the stone floor. Coolies darted upon the two and sank their knives into the youth. Bhimal stood erect, his eyes staring in frenzy.

“Jagannath conquers!” he shouted.

Khlit caught a glimpse of Matap Rao in a press of men. He turned in time to see Retha’s guards hemmed in by a rush of the mob, their swords wrested from their hands.

Retha was seized by many hands before she could lift a scimitar that she had caught up against herself. Seeing this and the agony in the girl’s face, Khlit hesitated.

But those who held the wife of the Rawul were too many for one man to encounter. He turned aside, down a passage that led toward the main gate.

He had seen Abdul Dost and Matap Rao fight loose from the men who caught at them.

Then for a long space smoke descended upon the chambers of Thaneswar from the smoldering thatch. The cries of the hurt and the wailing of the women were drowned in a prolonged shout of triumph.

The Rawul and Abdul Dost, who kept at his side, sought fruitlessly through the passages for Retha. Those who met them stepped aside at sight of their bloodied swords and stern faces. They followed the cries of a woman out upon the garden terrace, only to find that she was a slave in the hands of the coolies.

Matap Rao, white-faced, would have gone back into the house, but the Muslim held him by sheer strength.

“It avails not, my lord,” he said gruffly. “Let us to horse and then we may do something.”

The chieftain, dazed by his misfortune, followed the tall Afghan toward the stables, which so far had escaped the notice of the mob, bent on the richer plunder of the castle. Here they met

Khlit walking composedly toward them, leading his own pony and the Arab of Abdul Dost, fully saddled.

“Tell the stripling,” growled Khlit, “that his palace is lost. Retha I saw in the hands of the priests. They will guard her from the mob. Come.”

He led them in the direction of the elephant-stockade. He had noted that morning that a gate offered access to the elephants’ pool. Avoiding one or two of the great beasts who were trampling about the place, leaderless and uneasy, he came upon a man who ran along the stockade bearing a torch.

It was Sawal Das, bow in hand. The archer halted at sight of his lord.

“I had a thought to seek for Asil Rumi,” he cried. “But the largest of the elephants is gone with his mahout. Aie!—heavy is my sorrow. My lord, my men are slain—”

“Come!” broke in Abdul Dost. “We can do naught in Thanes-war.”

Even then, loath by hereditary custom to turn their backs on a foe, the chieftain and his archer would have lingered helplessly. But Abdul Dost took their arms and drew them forward.

“Would you add to the triumph of Nagir Jan?” he advised coolly. “There be none yonder but the dead and those who have gone over to the side of the infidel priests.

“This old warrior is in the right. He has seen many battles. We be four men, armed, with two horses. Better that than dead.”

A shout from the garden announced that they had been seen. This decided the archer, who tossed his torch to the ground and ran outward through the stockade and the outer wall.

Avoiding their pursuers in the shadows, they passed by the pool into the wood beyond the fields. Here a freshly beaten path opened before them. Sawal Das trotted ahead until all sounds of pursuit had dwindled. Then they halted, eyeing each other in silence.

Matap Rao leaned against a horse, the sweat streaming from his face. His slender shoulders shook. Khlit glanced at him, then fell to studying the ground under their feet.

Sawal Das unstrung his bow and counted the arrows in his quiver.

“Enough,” he remarked grimly, “to send as gifts into the gullets of the Snake and his Kurral. They will not live to see Retha placed upon the car of Jagannath. I swear it.”

Abdul Dost grunted.

Matap Rao raised his head and they fell silent.

“In the fall of my house and the loss of my wife,” he said bitterly, “lies my honor. Fool that I was to bring Retha to Thaneswar when Nagir Jan had set his toils about it. I cannot face the men of Rinthambur.”

“Rinthambur!” cried Abdul Dost. “Ho—that is a good word. The hard-fighting clan will aid us, nothing loath—aye, and swiftly. Look you, on these two horses we may ride there—”

“Peace!” said the Rawul calmly. “Think you, soldier, I would ride to Rinthambur when they still hold the wedding feast, and say that Retha has been taken from me?”

“What else?” demanded the blunt Afghan. “By Allah—would you see the Lotus Face fall to Jagannath? In a day and a night we may ride thither and back. With the good clan of Rinthambur at our heels. Eh—they wield the swords to teach these priests a lesson—”

“Nay, it would be too late.”

“When does the procession of the god—”

“Just before sunset the car of Jagannath is dragged to the ruins.”

“Then,” proposed the archer, “if Vishnu favors us we may attack—we four—and slay many. Twilight will cover our movement near the ruins. Aye, perchance we can muster some following among the nearby peasants.

“Then will we provide bodies in very truth for the car of Jagannath to roll upon. From this hour am I no longer a follower of the All-Destroyer—”

Matap Rao smiled wanly. “So have I not been for many years, Sawal Das. My faith is that of the Rinthambur clan, who are called children of the sun. I worship the One Highest. Yet what has it availed me?”

He turned as Khlit came up. The Cossack had lent an attentive ear to the speech of the archer. He had completed his study of the trail wherein they stood. He swaggered as he walked forward—a fresh alertness in his gaunt figure.

“It is time,” he said, “that we took counsel together as wise men and as warriors. The time for folly is past.”

Abdul Dost and Sawal Das, nothing loath, seated themselves on their cloaks upon the ground already damp with the night dew. Matap Rao remained as he was, leaning against the horse in full moonlight notwithstanding the chance of discovery by a stray pursuer.

The mesh of cypress and fern branches overhead cast mottled shadows on the group. The moon was well in the West and the moist air of the early morning hours chilled the perspiration with which the four were soaked. They drew their garments about them and waited, feeling the physical quietude that comes upon the heels of forcible exertion.

Khlit, deep in the shadows, called to Sawal Das softly.

“What see you here in the trail?” he questioned. “This is not a path made by men, nor is it a buffalo-track leading to water.”

The archer bent forward. “True,” he acknowledged. “It is the trail of elephants. One at least has passed.”

He felt of the broad spoor. “Siva—none but Asil Rumi, largest of the Thaneswar herd, could have left these marks. They are fresh.”

“Asil Rumi,” continued Khlit from the darkness. “It is as I thought. Tell me, would the oldest elephant have fled without his rider?”

“Nay. Asil Rumi is schooled in war. He is not to be frightened. Only will he flee where his mahout leads. Without the man Asil Rumi would have stayed.”

“This mahout—is he true man or traitor?”

“True man to the Rawul. It is his charge to safeguard the elephant. He must seek to lead Asil Rumi into hiding in the jungle.”

“A good omen.”

Satisfaction for the first time was in the voice of the Cossack. “Now may we plan. Abdul Dost, have you a thought as to how we may act?”

The Muslim meditated.

“We will abide with the Rawul. We have taken his quarrel upon us. He may have a thought to lead us into the temple this night, while the slaves of Jagannath sleep and the plundering en-gages the multitude—”

“Vain,” broke in the archer. “The priests hold continued festival. The temple wall is too high to climb and the guards are alert. Retha will be kept within the sanctuary of the idols, under the gold dome where no man may come but a priest.

“The only door to the shrine is through the court of offerings, across the place of dancing, and through the audience hall—”

“Even so,” approved Khlit. “Now is it the turn of Sawal Das. He has already spoken well.”

“My thought is this,” explained the archer. “There will be great shouting and confusion when the sacred car is led from the temple gate. A mixed throng will seek to draw the car by the ropes and to push at the many wheels.

“We may cover our armor with common robes and hide our weapons, disguising our faces. Men from the outlying districts will aid us, for they are least tainted by the poisonous breath of the Snake—”

“Not so,” objected the Afghan, ill pleased at the archer’s refusal of his own plan. “Time lacks for the gathering of an adequate force. Those who were most faithful to the Rawul have suffered their heads and hands cut off and other defects.

“Besides, the mastery of Thaneswar has passed to the Snake. When would peasants risk their lives in a desperate venture? Eh— when fate has decreed against them?”

“Justly spoken,” said Khlit bluntly. “Sawal Das, you and the Rawul might perchance conceal your likeness, but the heavy

bones of Abdul Dost and myself—they would reveal us in the throng. It may not be.”

“What then?” questioned the archer fiercely. “Shall we watch like frightened women while this deed of shame is done?” “Has the chieftain a plan?” asked Khlit.

Matap Rao lifted his head wearily.

“Am I a warrior?” he said calmly. “The Rinthambur warriors have a saying that a sword has no honor until drawn in battle for a just cause. This night has brought me dishonor. There is no path for me except a death at the hands of the priests—”

“Not so,” said Khlit.

The others peered into the shadows, trying to see his face. “You have all spoken,” continued the Cossack. “I have a plan that may gain us Retha. Will you hear it?”

“Speak,” said Abdul Dost curiously.

“The temple may not be entered. The multitude of worshipers is too great for the assault of few men. Then must the chieftain and Abdul Dost ride to Rinthambur as speedily as may be.”

“And Retha?” questioned the Rawul.

“Sawal Das and I will fetch the woman from the priests and go to meet you, so that your swords may cover our flight.”

Matap Rao laughed shortly. To him the rescue of Retha seemed a thing impossible.

“Is my honor so debased that I would leave my bride to the chance of rescue at other hands?”

Whereupon Abdul Dost rose and went to his side respectfully. He laid a muscular hand on the shoulder of the youth.

“My lord,” he said slowly, “your misfortune has befallen because of the evil craft of men baser and shrewder than you. Allah—you are but a new-weaned boy in experience of combat. You are a reader of books.

“Yet this man called the Curved Saber is a planner of battles. He has had a rank higher than yours. He has led a hundred thou-sand swords. His hair is gray, and it was said to me not once but many times that he is very shrewd.

“It is no dishonor to follow his leadership. I have not yet seen him in battle, but I have heard what I have heard.”

The Rawul was silent for a space. Then, “Speak,” he said to Khlit.

While they listened Khlit told them what was in his mind, in few words. He liked not to talk of his purpose. He spoke to ease the trouble of the boy.

When he had done Sawal Das and Abdul Dost looked at each other.

“Bismillah!” cried the Afghan. It is a bold plan. What! Think you I would ride to Rinthambur and leave you—Khlit—to act thus¿‘

“Aye,” said the Cossack dryly. “There is room for two men in my venture; no more. Likewise, two should ride to the rajas, for one man might fail or be slain—”

Matap Rao peered close into Khlit’s bearded face.

“The greater danger lies here,” he said. “You would take your life in your open hand. How can I ask this of you?”

Khlit grunted, for such words were ever to his distaste. “I would strike a blow for Retha,” he responded, but he was thinking of Nagir Jan.

His words stirred the injured pride of the Hindu.

“By the gods!” he cried. “Then shall I stay with you.”

“Nay, my lord. Will the chieftains of Rinthambur raise their standard and mount their riders for war on the word of a stranger —a Muslim? So that they will believe, you must go,” adding in his beard, “and be out of my way.”

So it happened before moonset that Abdul Dost and the Rawul mounted and rode swiftly to the West through paths known to the chieftain.

At once Khlit and Sawal Das set forth upon the spoor of Asil Rumi, which led north toward the farm of Bhimal. Now as he went the little archer fell to humming under his breath. It was the first time he had sung in many hours.

VI

When the shadows lengthened in the courtyard of the temple of Kukushetra the next day a long cry went up from the multitude. From the door under the wheel and flag of Vishnu came a line of priests.

First came the strewers of flowers, shedding lotus-blossoms, jasmine and roses in the path that led to the car of Jagannath. The bevy of dancing women thronged after them, chattering excitedly. But their shrill voices were drowned in the steady, passionate roar that went up from the throng.

The temple prostitutes no longer drew the eyes of the pilgrims. Their task in arousing the desires of the men was done. Now it was the day of Jagannath, the festival of the Janam.

Bands of priests emerged from the gate, motioning back the people. A solid wall of human beings, straining for sight of the god, packed the temple enclosure and stretched without the gates. A deeply religious, almost frenzied mass, waiting for the great event of the year, which was the passage of the god to his country seat—as the older ruined temple was termed.

A louder acclaim greeted the appearance of the grotesque wooden form of the god, borne upon the shoulders of the Brahmans. The figure of Jagannath was followed by that of the small Balabhadra, brother to the god, and Subhadra, his sister.

Jagannath was carried to his car. This was a complicated wooden edifice, put together by reverent hands—a car some fifteen yards long and ten yards wide, and lofty. Sixteen broad wooden wheels, seven feet high, supported the mass. A series of platforms, occupied by the women of the temple, hung with garlands of flowers and with offerings to the god, led up to a wide seat, wherein was placed Jagannath.

This done, those nearest the car laid hold of the wheels and the long ropes, ready to begin the famous journey. The smaller cars of Balabhadra and Subhadra received less attention and fewer adherents.

Was not Jagannath Lord of the World, chief among the gods, and divine bringer of prosperity during the coming year? So the

Brahmans had preached, and the people believed. Had not their fathers believed before them?

The decorators of the idols had robed Jagannath in costly silk and fitted false arms to the wooden body so that it might be sightly in the eyes of the multitude.

The cries of the crowd grew louder and the ropes attached to the car tautened with a jerk. A flutter of excitement ran through the gathering. Had they not journeyed for many days to be with Jagannath on the Janam?

As always in a throng, the nearness of so many of their kind wrought upon them. Religious zeal was at a white heat. But the Brahmans raised their hands, cautioning the worshipers.

“The bride of Jagannath comes!” they cried.

“Way for the bride of the god!” echoed the pilgrims.

The door of the temple opened again and Retha appeared, at-tended by some of the women of the wardrobe. The girl’s slim form had been elaborately robed. Her cheeks were painted, her long hair allowed to fall upon her shoulders and back.

A brief silence paid tribute to the beauty of the woman. She glanced once anxiously about the enclosure; then her eyes fell, nor did she look up when she was led to a seat beside and slightly below the image of the god.

Once she was seated the guardians who had watched her throughout the night stepped aside. In the center of the crowd of worshipers Retha was cut off from her kind, as securely the property of the god as if she still stood in the shrine. For no one among the throng but was a follower of Jagannath, in the zenith of religious excitement.

The priests formed a cordon about the car. Hundreds of hands caught up the ropes. A blare of trumpets from the musicians on the car, and it lurched forward, the great wheels creaking.

“Honor to Jagannath!” screamed the voice of Bhimal. “The god is among us. Let me touch the wheels!”

The machine was moving forward more steadily now, the wheels churning deep into the sand. The pullers sweated and

groaned, tasting keen delight in the toil; the throng crushed closer. A woman cried out, and fainted.

But those near her did not give back. Instead, they set their feet upon her body and pressed forward. Was it not true blessedness to die during the passage of Jagannath?

Contrary to many tales, they did not throw themselves under the wheels. Only one man did this, and he wracked with the pain of leprosy and sought a holy death, cleansed of his disease.

Perhaps in other days numbers had done this. But now many died in the throng, what with the heat and pressure and the strain of the excitement, which had continued now for several days.

Slowly the car moved from the temple enclosure, into the streets of the village, out upon the highway that led to its destination. The sun by now was descending to the horizon.

But the ardor of the pilgrims waxed higher as the god continued its steady progress. For the car to halt would be a bad omen. And the dancing women, stimulated by bhang, shouted and postured on the car, flinging their thin garments to those below and gesturing with nude bodies in a species of frenetic exaltation.

Those pushing the car from behind shouted in response. The eyes of Nagir Jan, walking among the pilgrims, gleamed. Kurral, crouched on the car, had ceased to watch the quiet form of Retha.

Rescue now, he thought, was impossible, as was any attempt on her part to escape. For the car was surrounded the space of a long bowshot on every side.

The wind which had fluttered the garlands on the car died down as the shadows lengthened. The leaders of the crowd were already within sight of the shrine whither they were bound.

Retha sat as one lifeless. Torn from the side of her husband and carried from the hall of Thaneswar, she had been helpless in the hands of the priests. A proud woman, accustomed to the deference shown to the clan of Rinthambur, the misfortune had numbed her at first.

Well knowing what Matap Rao knew of the evil rites of Jagannath, to be exhibited to the crowd of worshipers caused her to flush under the paint which stained her cheeks.

She would have cast herself down from the car if she had not known that the Brahmans would have forced her again into the seat. To be handled by such a mob was too great a shame.

She had heard that Matap had escaped alive the night before. One thought kept up her courage. Not without an effort to save her would the Rawul allow her to reach the shrine where the rites of that night were to take place.

This she knew, and she hugged the slight comfort of that hope to her heart. Rawul Matap Rao would not abandon her. But, seeing the number of the throng, even this hope dwindled.

How could the chieftain reach her side? But he would ride into the throng, she felt, and an arrow from his bow would free her from shame.

At a sudden silence which fell upon the worshipers she lifted her head for the first time.

Coming from the shrine of the elder gods she saw a massive elephant, appareled for war, an armored plate on his chest, sword blades fastened to his tusks, his ears and trunk painted a bright orange and leather sheets strapped to his sides. And, seeing, she gave a low cry.

“Asil Rumi!”

The elephant was advancing more swiftly than it seemed at first, his great ears stretched out, his small eyes shifting. On his back was the battle howdah. Behind his head perched the mahout wearing a shirt of mail. In the howdah were two figures that stared upon the crowd.

Asil Rumi advanced, interested, even excited, by the throng of men. Schooled to warfare, he followed obediently the instructions of his native master, scenting something unwonted before him. Those nearest gave back hastily.

For a space the throng believed that the elephant was running amuck. Never before had man or beast interfered with the

progress of the god. But as Asil Rumi veered onward and the leading pullers at the ropes were forced to scramble aside an angry murmur went up.

Then the voice of Kurral rang out.

“Infidels!” he cried. “Those upon the elephant are men of Matap Rao.”

The murmur increased to a shout, in which the shrill cries of the women mingled.

“Blasphemers! Profaners of Jagannath! Slay them!” Nagir Jan raised his arms in anger.

“Defend the god!” he shouted. “Turn the elephant aside.”

Already some men had thrust at Asil Rumi with sticks and spears. The elephant rumbled deep within his bulk. His wrinkled head shook and tossed. His trunk lifted and his eyes became inflamed. He pushed on steadily.

A priest stepped into his path and slashed at his trunk with a dagger.

Asil Rumi switched his trunk aside, and smote the man with it. The priest fell back, his skull shattered. A soldier cast a javelin which clanged against the animal’s breastplate.

Angered, the elephant rushed the man, caught him in his trunk and cast him underfoot. A huge foot descended on the soldier, and the man lay where he had fallen, a broken mass of bones from which oozed blood.

Now Asil Rumi trumpeted fiercely. He tasted battle and glanced around for a fresh foe.

The bulk of the towering car caught his eye. With a quick rush the elephant pressed between the ropes, moving swiftly for all his size and weight.

The clamor increased. Men dashed at the beast, seeking to penetrate his armor with their weapons; but more hung back. For from on the howdah a helmeted archer had begun to discharge arrows that smote down the leaders of the crowd. The mahout prodded Asil Rumi forward.

The elephant, nothing loath, placed his armored head full against the car. For a moment the pressure of the crowd behind

the wooden edifice impelled it against the animal. Asil Rumi uttered a harsh, grating cry and bent his legs into the ground.

He leaned his weight against the car. The wooden wheels of Jagannath creaked, then turned loosely in the sand. The car of the god had stopped. A shout of dismay went up.

Then the mahout tugged with his hook at the head of Asil Rumi. Obedient, even in his growing anger inflamed by minor wounds, the elephant placed one forefoot on the shelving front of the car. The rudely constructed wood gave way and the mass of the car sank with a jar upon the ground, broken loose from the support of the front wheels.

By now the mob was fully aroused. Arrows and javelins flew against the leather protection of the animal and his leather-like skin, wrinkled and aged to the hardness of rhinoceros hide.

A shaft struck the leg of the native mahout and a spear caught in his groin under the armor. He shivered, but retained his seat. Seeing this, Khlit clambered over the front of the howdah to the man’s side.

“Make the elephant kneel!” he cried.

Asil Rumi knelt, and the forepart of the car splintered under the weight of two massive knees. It fell lower. Now Asil Rumi was passive for a brief moment, and Sawal Das redoubled his efforts, seeking to prevent the priests with knives from ham-stringing the beast.

“Come, Retha!” cried Khlit, kneeling and holding fast to the headband beside the failing native.

The woman was now on a level with him. She understood not his words, but his meaning was plain. The shock to the car had dislodged many of the men upon it.

The temple women clutched at her, but she avoided them. She poised her slender body for the leap.

“Slay the woman!” cried Kurral, scrambling toward her.

A powerful Bhil perched beside the head of the elephant and slashed once with his scimitar. The blow half-severed the mahout’s head from the body. Before he could strike again Khlit had knocked him backward.

Retha sprang forward, and the Cossack caught her with his free arm, drawing back as Kurral leaped, knife in hand. The priest missed the woman. The next instant his body slipped back, a feathered shaft from the bow of Sawal Das projecting from his chest.

“Ho—Kurral—your death is worthy of you,” chanted the archer. “Gully jackal, scavenger dog—”

His voice trailed off in a gurgle. And Khlit and the girl were flung back against the howdah. Asil Rumi, maddened by his wounds and no longer hearing the voice of his master, started erect.

He tossed his great head, reddened with blood. His trumpeting changed to a hoarse scream. The knives of his assailants had hurt him sorely.

The sword blades upon the tusks had been broken off against the car. The leather armor was cut and slashed. Spears, stuck in the flanks of the elephant, acted as irritants. His trunk—a most sensitive member—was injured, and his neck bleeding.

While Khlit and Retha clung beside the body of the mahout, Asil Rumi shrilled his anger at the throng of his enemies. He broke crashing from the ruins of the car wherein lay the unattended figure of Jagannath, and plunged into the crowd. Weaving his head—its paint besmirched by blood—Asil Rumi raced for-ward.

He rushed onward until no more of his tormentors stood in his path. Then the elephant hesitated, and headed toward the trail up the hill which led down to his quarters at Thaneswar.

“Harken,” said a weak voice from the howdah.

Khlit peered up and saw the archer’s face strangely pale. “Asil Rumi will run,” said Sawal Das, “until he sees the body of the native fall. Hold the mahout firmly.”

A few foot soldiers had run after the elephant in a half-hearted fashion. There were no horsemen in the crowd, and few cared to follow the track of the great beast afoot. Asil Rumi had struck terror into the worshipers.

His appearance and the devastation he had wrought had been that of no ordinary elephant. Among the Hindus lingered the memory of the elder gods of the ruins from which Asil Rumi had so abruptly emerged. And some among them reflected that Vishnu, highest of the gods, bore an elephant head.

So had the deaths inflicted by Asil Rumi stirred their fears.

The sun had set, and the crimson of the western sky was fading to purple. The calm of twilight hung upon the forest through which Asil Rumi paced, following the trail. A flutter of night birds arose at his presence, and a prowling leopard slunk away at the angry mutter of the elephant, knowing that Asil Rumi was enraged and that an angry elephant was monarch of whatsoever path he chose to follow.

Again came the voice of Sawal Das, weaker now.

“My heart is warm that the Lotus Face is saved for my lord,” it said—neither Khlit nor the girl dared to look up from their precarious perch where the branches of overhanging cypresses swept.

“An arrow—” the voice failed—“tell the Rawul how Sawal Das fought—for my spirit goes after the mahout—”

A moment later a branch caught the howdah and swept it to earth. Retha and Khlit clung tighter to the head-straps, pressing their bodies against the broad back of Asil Rumi. Khlit did not release his grasp on the dead native.

The wind of their passage swept past their ears; the labored breath of the old elephant smote their nostrils pungently. Ferns scraped their shoulders. They did not look up.

It was dark by now, and still Asil paced onward.

Dawn was breaking and a warm wind had sprung up when Matap Rao and Abdul Dost with the leaders of the Rinthambur clan passed the boundary tower of Thaneswar. A half-thousand armed men followed them, but few were abreast of them, for they had ridden steadily throughout the night, not sparing their horses.

Dawn showed the anxious chieftain the unbroken stretch of the Thaneswar forest through which he had passed on his bridal journey. He did not look at those with him, but pressed onward.

So it happened that Rawul Matap Rao and two of the best mounted of the Rinthambur riders were alone when they emerged into a glade where a path from Thaneswar crossed the main trail. And here they reined in their spent horses with a shout.

In the path lay the body of a native. Over the dead man stood the giant elephant, caked with mud and dried blood, his small eyes closed and his warlike finery stained and torn. And beside the elephant stood Khlit and Retha.

What followed was swift in coming to pass. After a brief embrace the Rawul left his bride to be escorted back to Rinthambur by Khlit and Abdul Dost at the head of a detail of horsemen while he and the Rinthambur men wrested Thaneswar from the priests.

It was a different matter this, from the assault upon the palace by Nagir Jan, and the followers of the temple were forced to give way before the onset of trained warriors.

The religious fervor of the Kukushetra men had suffered by the misfortune that befell their god before the ruins, and the fighting was soon at an end.

But it was not until Matap Rao was again in Thaneswar with Retha that Khlit and Abdul Dost turned their horses’ heads from the palace. Peace had fallen upon the province again, for Matap Rao had sent a message to the shrine of Puri, and the high priests of Vishnu, among whom the ambitions of Nagir Jan had found no favor, had judged that Nagir Jan had made wrong use of his power and sent another to be head of the Kukushetra temple.

“Aye, and men whispered that there was a tale that the mad beast of the ruins was the incarnate spirit of an older god,” laughed Abdul Dost, who wore new finery of armor and rode a fine horse—the Rawul had been generous. “Such are the fears of fools and infidels.”

Khlit, who rode his old pony, tugged his beard, his eyes grave.

“It was not the false gods,” he said decidedly, “that saved Matap Rao his wife. It was verily a warrior—an old warrior. But how can the Rawul reward him.”

Abdul Dost glanced at Khlit curiously.

“Nay,” he smiled; “you are the one. You are a leader of men, even of the Rawul and his kind—as I said to them. Belittle not the gratitude of the chieftain. He would have kept you at his right hand, in honor. But you will not.”

“Because I am not the one.”

“Sawal Das?”

“Somewhat perhaps.”

Khlit’s voice roughened and his eyes became moody.

“Asil Rumi is the one. Truly never have I seen a fighter such as he. Yet Asil Rumi is old. Soon he will die. Where is his reward?”

Whereupon Khlit shook his broad shoulders, tightened his rein and broke into a gallop. Abdul Dost frowned, pondering. He shook his handsome head. Then his brow cleared and he spurred after his friend.