But he was only one, for that thing at his feet was not a man! The old north-country contempt for the down-country swept through Chris as fiercely as contempt for the east sometimes sweeps through the west; as, no doubt, it sweeps through the east for the west! 'How many were there?' he asked swiftly. 'Of the gang, I mean.' 'Too many,' moaned the _baboo_; 'oh, sir, too many for one poor man. Therefore _vis et armis_ forced into telling truth on compulsion because, they knowing already of train and troops, little knowledge became dangerous thing causing grievous hurt.' 'How many?' reiterated Chris fiercely; 'don't "men in buckram"!' He could not help the quotation, even then. Five or six! And the man who had run forward was one, left as a scout, of course. And that must be another in the shadow of the city wall, close to the gap. Say three or four, then, on the bridge-pier; and behind him? He turned citywards, then realised that if--if the _pier was to be held as a Christian country_, it would not matter how many men were on this side of the drawbridge, provided those three or four on the pier could be reckoned with. If! The next moment, still uncertain what he should do to gain his object, yet intellectually certain of that, he had run along the platform, swung himself over the low parapet of the retaining-wall, and dropped on to the bathing-steps, the top of which was here not six feet below the level of the line. And below him again the temple of _Mai_ Kâli rose out of the levels of the river; rose from the sunken ridge of rock, on which, farther out in the deeper stream, the drawbridge tower was built; the ridge along which he must pass, since he was no swimmer, if he was to gain that iron ladder. There were lights in the temple; twinkling lights. In his headlong rush downwards he could see the many-armed, blood-red idol between the figures of those circling round it with the sacred lamps. And that compelling clang of the temple bell was in his ears. Yet he did not pause. He was on the threshold, when it was barred by Viseshwar Nâth. 'Not yet, Krishn! Not yet! The penance first, the vow first!' 'It is not that,' gasped Chris, forgetful of the possibility, nay, the probability, that what to him was dire misfortune might be to this man a very different thing. 'It is treachery, murder! a train is due; they have raised the drawbridge. Look! and let me pass.' The drawbridge! Half a dozen worshippers grouped about the plinth heard the words and looked bridgewards; so did the Swâmi, and seized his advantage. 'Take thy shoes from off thy feet, Krishn Davenund,' he called in a louder voice, 'and vow the vow first!' The circling priests within paused at the sound, and crowded to the temple door; the scattered worshippers, curious at the strange sight, closed in round the figure in the frock-coat, the figure in the saffron-shirt.