A mist was swimming before Ruth’s eyes so that she no longer saw the room or the figure of George—only his red eyes glowed in the deepening shadows of the room, holding her own. She struggled to move her gaze, but her head would not turn; she tried to rise, to leave him as if his words were the silly ravings of a demented servant, but her limbs were paralysed. Only her lips moved and she heard words coming from them, or echoing in her brain. She could not be sure that she really made a sound. “What do you mean?” “In the whole world there are only two men who are fit to walk beside her—and of those one is slowly dying of an unknown disease. He whom the gods chose will soon be gone, but I remain because I have knowledge. In the _Mahabharata_ it is written, ‘Even if thou art the greatest sinner among all that are sinful, thou shalt yet cross over all transgressions by the raft of knowledge,’ and the Vedas tell of men who armed with knowledge have defied the gods themselves—” He paused and turned on her almost fiercely: “Do you think that I have renounced my caste, that I have lived with the unclean and served the unclean for nothing—the price has been too high for me to lose—but no price will seem too high after I have won!” Ruth woke to find herself alone and in darkness, save for the light from the street lamps that shone through the curtained windows. With her hands stretched out in front of her to ward off obstacles she moved cautiously through the room until she found a light to turn on. She felt weak and dizzy, but she remembered everything that George had said. It could not be true—it could not, but with her denials she still heard George’s voice speaking of the raft of knowledge and she half remembered the incomprehensible contradictions of Indian mythology—of heroes and holy Brahmans who had actually fought with gods and conquered, but these men had only won power through self-denial. Possibly George thought that by living as a servant for eleven years he was performing austerities—possibly did not know what he believed. Certainly modern Hindoos did not believe as he did. His mind seemed to be a confused mass of knowledge and superstition, ancient and modern, but one thing he had—faith and absolute confidence in his power, and she remembered some words she had read, when, as a child, she pored over books of mythology instead of fairy tales: “All this, whatever exists, rests absolutely on mind,” and “That man succeeds whom thus knowing the power of austere abstraction, practises it.” She was roused from her thoughts by the entrance of Amy. “Ain’ yo’ goin’ eat dinnah? That voodoo man, he’s gone out, an’ I saw you-all sleepin’ here and didn’t like to disturb yo’. Yo’ dinnah’s cold by now, but I’ll warm it up—now he’s gone I ain’ ’fraid to go in the kitchen.” “I’m not hungry, Amy, and I’m sorry you’re going.”