Faint and far they showed against the faint, far sky, but as Father Ninian pointed to them, a ray of light from the still unseen sun below the visible horizon of this world, a ray of light seeking perhaps another world among the stars, found the heights of the holy hills in its path, and dyed their snowdrifts red--blood red! At the sight a roar rose from the crowd. "_Jai Kali Ma!_ She gives a sign! The sacrifice is there! She is appeased! He speaks the truth. Let us follow him and his God!" "Ay! as my father did," cried one. "And mine!" "And mine!" assented some, while others forgot all save pilgrimage in the shout-- "_Râm, Râm, Sita Râm!_" "_Hârâ! Hârî! Hârî! Hârâ!_" So, on that babel of sounds, Pidar Narâyan's voice rose steadily as, preceded by that ambling figure--strangest of all acolytes--he walked on, chanting the 121st Psalm:-- "_Levavi oculos meos in montes; unde veniet auxilium mihi_." The words were in an unknown tongue, the rhythm strange, but the spirit, the idea, were familiar. It was the song of someone seeking the "Cradle of the Gods," as they were. "He carries his God, and that means all," said an old man, pushing his way to follow. "The other had none: how could he lead the way?" "That is true," assented many, following suit. And some, shrugging their shoulders, said, "He is mad. God has touched his brain. Then he goes the way our fathers went. They lingered not beyond the second dawn. Why should we?" "_Râm! Râm! Sita Râm!_" Thus, swiftly, the footfalls gathered in strength behind the little procession, and no one dared to stop it; not even the Mahomedan sentry at the Fort gate, to whom some of the agitators ran in their disappointment. He only laughed contemptuously; though his gravity returned somewhat at his recognition of old Akbar Khân. "Lo! that is a new walking for him!" he muttered, in an awed voice. "Truly, folk are right when they say there is magic in these idolaters. Who would have deemed him pilgrim? Well! let him go, he and his mummery. We soldiers can do without priests and Hindoos!" He twirled his mustache fiercely, and wondered when his comrades would return victorious from the gaol, and give the word for plunder. That was all he cared for. "Ay!" assented an angry voice, joining the group, "we can do without the fools. There be plenty of wise men left." "Plenty," put in another; "but their mood is different. See how they wander!" It was true. The crowd had broken into groups, and from these, pilgrims, singly, or in smaller groups, were drifting after the lessening sound of that chanting voice. Not so much from any belief in Pidar Narâyan, not even because of his lead over, but because it was the old way; the way worn by the feet of their fathers, and their fathers' fathers.