'Even so!' continued the Swâmi, not unkindly; 'thy father agreed with me (we of the temple have to keep touch with the world, Krishn). Yea! he gave gold, since that is in thy thought! to hide the wrong. And if he were willing to give her to you, his only son, as wife, wherefore should I speak? No harm was done to others; no deception to ignorant honour. But it was different when he died and thy mother came to me, with heart split in twain between the dream and duty, to speak of another betrothal. So I said then--"Wait yet a while. The gods have mated these two. He may return." That was better, was it not, Krishn, than--than _widowhood_ for the girl?' He leant towards the young man as he spoke the words, his sombre eyes fixed on Chris Davenant's shrinking face. Though the latter had known what was coming, the certainty of it overwhelmed him. He sat staring breathlessly, with such absolute paralysis of nerve and muscle that a damp sweat showed on his forehead, as on the foreheads of those who are in the grip of death. And widowhood was worse than death. It would be a living death to Naraini--Naraini with her little rose-coloured, rose-scented casket. 'Which is it to be, my pupil?' came the Swâmi's voice, swift and keen as a knife-thrust. 'Widowhood, or marriage?' Chris buried his face in his hands with a groan; then he looked up suddenly. 'Why?' he began, and ended. Appeal he knew was useless; but he might at least know why this choice was forced on him, for choice it was. His had been in the eye of the law a mixed marriage--his right as Hindoo remained in India. The Swâmi's lean brown hand was on his wrist again, but it was no longer impassive; it seemed to hold and claim him almost passionately. 'Because we of the temple need such as thou art, my son, in these new days when the old faith is assailed--ay! even by such as Râm Nâth, low-born, with his talk of ancient wisdom, his cult of Western ways hidden in the old teachings, his cult of the East blazoned in the outside husks of truth--the husks that we of the inner life set at their proper value! But thou art of us! Deny it not--the blood in thee thrills to thy finger-tips even as I speak. Thou art of us! and thy voice trembled in that dawn over the _gayatri_ thou hadst not said for years--nay, start not! we of the temple know all---as it trembled, Krishn, when thou didst first learn it here, as thou art to-day, at my feet.' In the silence that followed, Chris Davenant, who had so often ridden in a Hammersmith 'bus, was conscious of but two things in the wide world. That thrill to his finger-tips, and the scarlet stain of a woman's petticoat passing templewards beyond the arches; the only scrap of colour in the strange shadowless light which comes to India before the sun has risen over the level horizon.