With a quick intaking of breath, the material consciousness of the Hindu returned. “It is the hour,” he said to his _chela_. “We travel in the night.” Again the fleeting look of agony across the white face of Rawder, but Routledge gripped his shoulder, and spoke to Sekar: “It is a little thing, but I have plenty of money, if you need it. Would you not travel--at least, out of the region of great heat--in the fire-carriages of the English? A fortnight’s journey each daylight?” The Sannyasi answered: “The beloved of my disciple has earned many favors. It has been made clear to me that we must travel alone and on foot. I am very old, but there is still strength for the journey--or I should not have been sent.” He stretched out his hand--it was like a charred branch--and Routledge bent his head for the blessing. “You have chosen well, beloved of my _chela_. It is the shorter, steeper way you tread. This life you have dedicated to the service of men, and you are bound to the Wheel by the love of woman. Fulfil the duties all, and the way shall be quickened. Once more our paths shall meet--and there shall be four--in the Leper Valley!” Rawder poured a cup of water upon the aged feet, dried them with a cloth, and drew the sandals firm. “Night and morning I shall send you my blessing, Routledge, my brother,” he said, standing near the door. “Morning and evening, until we meet again in the Leper Valley, you shall know that there is a heart that thrills for the good of your life and your soul. Good-by.” They passed out into the torrid night. Their white garments turned to gray; then dulled into shadows, northward on the dust-deep Indian road. ELEVENTH CHAPTER A HAND TOUCHES THE SLEEVE OF THE GREAT FRIEZE COAT IN THE WINTRY TWILIGHT ON THE BUND AT SHANGHAI Routledge sat long in meditation after Rawder and his master had taken up their journey. Time passed unmeasured over his head until he was aroused by the guttering of a candle-wick. In quite an un-American fashion, he believed the prophetic utterances which the night had brought. The more a man knows, the more he will believe. The mark of a small man is ever his incapacity to accept that which he cannot hold in continual sight. Still, Routledge endured a reaction for the high moments of the recent hour. Sekar and Rawder and the power were gone from Rydamphur. He even felt abashed because of his outbursts to Rawder, so long had he been accustomed to the iron control of his emotions. It was not that he was sorry for what he had said, but torrential utterance leaves depletion. He did not feel the strength now to make men laugh at wars, nor to stay the tide of the world’s wars by painting the volcanic wrath of nations in all its futile and ferocious significance.