Richard Cobden stayed on. He had the sense of not being alone. Moreover, there was much to do. There were voices to answer. He heard cries and callings from the windows of the houses that overlooked the _maidan_. No English came that night--but the pariah dogs from all the city and outskirts. They moved like ghouls in the shadows. There were mysteries everywhere--white vapors from the ground. He saw and felt the unutterable; became rich for future years in that one night with the fruits of sadness. XLVIII “INDIA’S MESSENGER” COBDEN walked back from the _maidan_ through the streets of Amritsar in the dawn. He did not feel like a foreigner. That which had happened during the night had furnished him with what rarely comes to a white man--the Indian point of view. He was in the Indian fabric for the moment, at least; no longer a spectator from the West. He did not hate England, not even the crooked finger that had mismanaged for England. He knew something right now that he might not be able even to remember--more sorrow than anger. As he approached the Golden Temple, near which was the Inn, Nagar appeared in the street, and they walked together in silence. As he tottered a little, Nagar’s arm swung around him and Dicky said: “Don’t. I’m very dirty.” Now that the light was coming on, they saw people hurrying to the Jallianwalla Bagh. In the room, Dicky said: “Make a lot of tea, Nagar. Sorry you won’t join me in a little drink from the flask.” A moment later, he said: “I think after all, you’ll have to help me get off this shirt. I’m a rubbed-in mess of blood and dirt.” Nagar perceived that the body of the American trembled full-length; also that his clothing was soaked with blood from the wounded shoulder, as well as from stains received from handling others. “... Some of them crawled about in the dark!” Dicky was saying. “A woman sat there moaning through the whole night. The pariahs came--I heard them lapping, lapping. From the windows of the houses around the Bagh came the cries of the women who dared not disobey the curfew.... Why, that ten minutes of firing was longer than whole years I lived as a schoolboy, but the ten hours since dark--that passed, Nagar, like a man walking by a house, not a lame man.... I saw your India, oh, yes. The gentlest-tempered crowd I ever moved through, but something dangerous and deadly in its pain and grief. God help us--when you wake up----” Nagar helped him. Dicky bathed his neck and face and hair copiously with one hand, and then washed the left arm. With Nagar’s help the wound was packed with clean lint. Dicky drank hot tea, filling his goblet several times and shivering, though the heat of the night was still in the room. Finally he sat down in his bathrobe by the open window and lit a cigarette. The sunlight had found the gold of the Temple dome.