“It is to youth the divine message has come in all ages; the call to martyrdom and dedication.  ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ said the inspired Founder of Christianity.  So also I say in this time of revival, suffer the young to fling themselves into the arms of the Mother.  My sons, she cries, go back to the Vedas.  You will find all wisdom there.  Reject this alien gift—­however finely gilded—­of a civilisation inferior to your own.  Hindu Rishis were old in wisdom when these were still unclothed savages coloured with blue paint.  Shall the sacred Motherland be inoculated with Western poison?  It is for the young to decide—­to act.  Nerve your arms with valour.  Bring offerings acceptable, to the shrine of Kali Mai.  Does she demand a sheep?  A buffalo?  A cocoanut?  Ask yourselves.  The answer is written in your hearts——­”

His emaciated arms shot up and outward in a gesture the more impressive because it was maintained.  For a prolonged moment the holy one seemed to hover above his audience—­as it were an eagle poised on outspread wings....

Roy came to himself with a start.  His friend the policeman had plucked his sleeve; and they retreated a step or two through the open door.

“The Sahib heard?” queried Man Singh in cautious undertone.

“There’s hearing—­and hearing,” said Roy, aware of some cryptic message given and understood.  “I take it they all know what he’s driving at.”

“True talk.  They know.  But he has not said.  Therefore he goes in safety when he should be picking oakum in the jail khana.  They are cunning as serpents these holy ones.”

“They have the gift of tongues,” said Roy.  “May one ask what is Mai Kali’s special taste in sacrifices?”

The Sikh gave him an odd look.  “The blood of white goats—­meaning Sahibs, Hazur.”—­Roy’s ‘click’ was Oriental to a nicety.—­“’A white goat for Kali’ is an old Bengali catchword.  Hark how their tongues wag.  But there is still another—­much esteemed by the student-log; one who can skilfully flavour a pillau[16] of learned talk, as the Swami can flavour a pillau of religion.  Where he comes, there will be trouble afterwards, and arrests.  But no Siri Chandranath.  He is off making trouble elsewhere.”

“Chandranath—­here?” Roy’s heart gave a jerk, half excitement, half apprehension.

“Your Honour has heard the man?”

“No.  I’m glad of the chance.”

As they entered, the second speaker stepped on to the platform....

True talk, indeed!  There stood the boy who had whimpered under Scab Major’s bullying, in the dark coat and turban of the educated Indian; his back half turned, in confidential talk with a friend, who had set a carafe and tumbler ready to hand.  The light of a wall lamp shone full on his friend’s face—­clean-cut, handsome, unmistakable....

Dyan!  Dyan—­and Chandranath!  It was the conjunction that confounded Roy and tinged elation with dismay.  He could hardly contain himself till Dyan joined the audience; standing a little apart; not taking a seat.  Something in his face reminded Roy of the strained fervour in his letter to Aruna.  Carefully careless, he edged his way through the outer fringe of the audience, and volunteered a remark or two in Hindustani.