"A great people must rule mine," was the high answer. "I thought you a great people, and I used my strength, my wealth and influence to further your power. But you are not worthy. Who are you that dare to assume authority over millions--you who can not rule yourselves, you who idle away your lives in folly and self-seeking? Well may you crown yourselves with the laurels which your fathers won! You have none of your own--and see to it that those faded emblems from a high past are not snatched from your palsied fingers. I at least have flung from me a yoke which I despise. Parasites shall not feast upon my country!" A low murmur arose from the serried ranks and grew and deepened as Nicholson retorted passionately: "Thou canst not measure thyself against an Empire!" "Empire against Empire!" "Marut is no Empire!" "All India shall answer me!" At another moment Nicholson might have smiled at so vain a boast, but it did not seem to him vain as he faced that towering figure. There was destiny written in the blazing eyes. So might a prophet have called upon his nation--so might a nation, inspired by an absolute belief, have answered him as this swaying crowd answered--with wild, triumphant shouts. "We follow thee, Anointed One! Lead us, for thou art Vishnu, thou art God!" "Thou hearest!" Nehal Singh said, turning to Nicholson. "I hear," the Englishman answered significantly. "And I know, as thou knowest, that it is a lie. Thou art not God. Thou art a Christian." "No longer. How shall I believe in a God whose disciples mock His commandments?" His voice became inaudible in the suddenly increased confusion. The next instant, the torch-bearers, who guarded the open space around the two men, were thrust violently on one side, and with a wild scream, which rang high above the uproar, a half-naked figure rushed up the steps and with outspread arms stood like an evil phantom at Nehal's side. "He is dead!" he shrieked. "He is dead! I killed him--my knife it was that killed him--the son of the Devil Stafford is dead--my enemy is dead!" He swung around toward the light, his arms still raised and Nicholson recognized, with a start of repulsion, Behar Singh's triumphant, distorted features. "Kill!" he shrieked again. "Kill them all, son--son--of--the--so is my revenge--". The harsh, grating voice cracked like a steel blade that has been snapped in half. For a breathing space Behar Singh stood there, drawn to his full height; then he reeled and rolled with a heavy thud to the lowest step, where he lay motionless, his grinning face frozen into a look of diabolical joy. A slow oozing stream of blood crept over the white marble to Nicholson's feet. The voices died into silence. Nicholson and Nehal Singh faced each other over the dead body. "Thou seest," Nehal Singh said. "There is no turning back."