Though he hurried, darkness was on him before he reached the level; and then, indeed, it seemed as if he must resign himself to another night of solitude. Nevertheless he fought, still refusing to abandon his hope. And suddenly, from a more open space on the slope, he looked down and saw, but a little way below, half a dozen shining lights—flames of sacrificial fires. And after that no falls, no bruises, no difficulties of the precipitous way, could keep him back. An hour after sunset he stood at the edge of the clearing where the village was. The first hut was near at hand: a square one, tiny, tumble-down, even squalid. Yet it was roofed over with wood, and within the open doorway firelight shone. There must be human creatures there; and there Oman was determined to enter. He approached, almost reverently, and halted before the door. Within, was only one person—a woman, or girl, of perhaps sixteen. Her dress proclaimed her widowhood, and her caste was too easily recognizable. Oman, however, accustomed to such matters, thought of nothing but that she was a woman—kneading barley-cakes before her fire; and, as he watched her, his heart warmed with humanness, and he smiled. After a moment she, lifting her head, perceived him, dimly outlined near the doorway. At once she rose, though without any welcome in her eyes, and advanced, with respectful salute, saying, in a voice that was pleasantly modulated: “Enter, sir, enter. I have entertainment for him that desires it.” Oman shook his head. “I come from out of the hills. Nor have I any money,” he added, suddenly aware of his destitution. But the girl only saluted him again: “The reverend One is a Brahmana.[8] Enter, then, in the name of the gods.” [8] Wandering fakirs of any religion were called “Brahmanas,” a word to be distinguished from “Brahmans.” Once more, though slowly and with deep reluctance, Oman shook his head. “I am neither Bhikkhu nor Brahmana,” he answered. “I am—an outcast.” For a moment the woman turned away her head, and Oman’s heart sank. But, all of a sudden, she ran to him, taking him by the hand, and looking at him so that he perceived the gentleness of her face and eyes. “Enter,” she whispered. “I am lonely. I will share my cakes with you. And there is milk.—But my husband’s brother must not know this thing. He is of the weaver caste; and he is very proud.” Chattering in a subdued voice, she led him in, and placed him before the crackling fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the roof. The cakes which she had just kneaded and shaped lay on a board before the fire, baking questionably. Now she ran to a cupboard in the corner and took therefrom a large jar of meal, a little of which she put into an earthen pot, near at hand. Water, from another jar, was poured over the grain; and then she set the dish in the fire, where the simple porridge was soon steaming pleasantly.