Footsteps passed, and voices; but the sounds scarcely reached her brain.  The wind freshened sharply; and the impact of two ripples almost capsized her chiragh.  It dipped—­it vanished....

With a low sound of dismay she craned forward; lost her balance, and would have fallen headlong ... but that masculine fingers closed on her arm and pulled her backward—­just in time.

“Roy!” she breathed, without turning her eyes from the water—­for the precious flame had reappeared.  “Look, there it is—­safe...!”

“But what of you, little sister, had not I stayed to watch the fate of your Dewali lamp?”

The words were spoken in the vernacular—­and not in the voice of Roy.  Startled, she drew back and faced a man of less than middle height, bare-headed, wearing the orange-pink draperies of an ascetic.  In the half dark she could just discern the colour and the necklace of carved beads that hung almost to his waist.

“I am most grateful, guru-ji,"[13] she murmured demurely, also in the vernacular; and stood so—­shaken a little by her fright:  unreasonably disappointed that it was not Roy; relieved, that the providential intruder chanced to be a holy man.  “Will you not speed my brave little lamp with your blessing?”

His smile arrested and puzzled her; and his face, more clearly seen, lacked the unmistakable stamp of the ascetic.

“You are not less brave yourself, sister,” he said, “venturing thus boldly and alone....”

The implication annoyed her; but anxious not to be misjudged, she answered truthfully:  “I am not as those others, guru-ji.  I am—­England-returned; still out of purdah ... out of caste.”

He levelled his eyes at her with awakened interest; then:  “Frankness for frankness is fair exchange, sister.  I am no guru; but like yourself, England-returned; caste restored, however.  Dedicated to service of the Mother——­”

It was her turn to start and scrutinise him—­discreetly.  “Yet you make pretence of holiness——?”

“In the interests of the Mother,” he interposed, answering the note of reproach, “I need to mix freely among her sons—­and daughters.  These clothes are passports to all, and, wearing them in her service is no dishonour.  But for my harmless disguise, I might not have ventured near enough to save you from making a feast for the muggers—­just for this superstition of Dewali—­not cured by all the wisdom of Oxford.—­Was it Oxford?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible——?” He drew nearer.  His eyes dwelt on her frankly, almost boldly.

“Am I addressing the accomplished daughter of Ram Singh Bahadur——?”

At that she pulled her sari forward, turning away from him.  His look and tone repelled her, frightened her; yet she could not call for Roy, who was playing his part too scrupulously well.

“Go——!  Leave me!” she commanded desperately, louder than she had spoken yet.  “I am not ungrateful.  But—­making pujah[14]—­I wish to be alone——­”