DICKY really came to back in an apothecary shop on the way to the Golden Temple, where Lala Relu Ram had carried him. The filth of that face that had opened upon him as he looked up from his knee--a shudder about that, something he would never be able to tell. It had been uglier to take than the blows. As moments dragged on, he fell to wishing Nagar would come. A curious wonder played incessantly in his mind about the twisted ascetic under the mango trees in Cawnpore, but where was the wall? The crystal gazer had repeated that the thing which was to befall would be within a wall. “... The bullet didn’t think enough of you to stay, Mr. Cobden,” the young English surgeon said after examination. “It merely bit out a chunk of muscle and went its way. Since there is no cavity for it to drain into, it means nothing but a stitch or two, and a clean bandage. But you’ve been considerably mashed about the face. There’s going to be a strain on your drainage system for a few days to carry off dead tissue.” He was taken to his room at the Inn, much bandaged, and Lala Relu Ram sat by his bedside, his face often turned to the open window that looked out over the street. “I’m all right--don’t stay,” Dicky urged, as he began to understand the sacrifice of the student in remaining with him instead of following the mob. “Nagarjuna did not say for one hour, or for half of one day, but for the full day,” Lala Relu Ram declared, “and who knows but that I too might have disobeyed the orders of Mahatma-ji and become violent?” Dicky hadn’t much of a grin left, but such as it was, he was free to let it work under the folds of gauze. He sent the student below on one pretext after another, knowing that the young man was exhausting himself from strain to hear all that had happened. “It is more terrible than we supposed,” the student reported, as the long day ended. “Enraged by their dead and wounded, and being prevented from carrying their request to the Deputy Commissioner, my people have burned buildings, bank buildings--the National, the Chartered, the Alliance banks----” “That’s hitting them where they live,” said Mr. Cobden, impelled to Americanisms as never before. “Sir?” said Lala Relu Ram, bending forward on the scent of the idiom. “A Government bank is an English nerve center, Lala Ram,” Dicky said. The student was thoughtful, and then resumed: “It is with sorrow that I have to confess that my people have forgotten themselves in the case of Mr. Stewart and Mr. Scott of the National Bank and Mr. Thomason of the Alliance Bank----” “Hurt?” said Dicky. “Dead,” said the student, with a dramatic pause. “And that is not all. Miss Sherwood was most brutally assaulted, and outside the city a railway guard named Robinson, and a havildar in charge of the Electric, named Rowlands, were beaten to death where they live, and the station goods yard burnt----” Dicky’s eyes squinted under the cloths. “And what of your own people?” he managed to ask.