An ancient bridge unites the two, and underneath the bridge the Pul-ke-Nichi runs--a narrow street between the hills, a few feet higher than the level of the temple basements, which were excavated century by century until the hills are like honeycombs and no man--except certain Brahmins--knows the secret of the interlacing tunnels or how deep the dungeons lie in the foundations below the basement and the courtyard level. Nobody knows what happens in the dungeons, or has happened in them. Certainly Bamjee did not know, although he had boasted to the contrary. He only knew that the courtyard where he stood was almost at street level, but between him and the street was a teak door, possibly a foot thick, that exactly fitted a ponderous arch and frame of cyclopean masonry. There was no escape by that route. Crouching like a rat in the shadow he listened. He heard the gate-men say he had escaped. He heard them reprimanded, heard the order given to keep the gate locked until morning--worshipers were to be told to enter the temple by the small door on the far side of the hill. Bamjee's problem was to get into the temple, in which there was never an hour of day or night that did not see somebody, and normally a number of people, meditating or clicking rosaries and chanting _mantrams_. From the temple he could walk out through the small door unobserved. There were two chief difficulties, of which the more immediate was the danger of crossing the courtyard. There was no guessing how many temple attendants lurked in the pitch-dark shadows; it was a hot night and every one off-duty probably had spread his mattress under the stars. "And such dogs sleep with one eye open," Bamjee muttered. However, it had to be risked. Another difficulty was that he had dressed as a low-caste nondescript who had no business within those sacred walls. A caste-mark did not matter; that would be invisible at night, but the huge white turban and the flowing cotton garments were a problem. He had to solve that first. He remembered the silken turban he had coiled around his waist, and the thought of that reminded him that he still had money tucked away. "Could buy a high priest if I had enough," he muttered. "How much have I? It feels like five hundred rupees. I remember the time when that much would have bought me five times over. I was always better than two Brahmins. That is therefore ten times too much for a Brahmin's honor. He must therefore throw in something. Courage, Bamjee-bhai! If you can escape from this place there is no reason why something besides dirt should not stick to you. I think those gate-men have gone to sleep."