Thank God!  At last it was over!  But while applause hummed and fluttered, there sprang on to the platform, unannounced, a wiry keen-faced man, with the parted beard of a Sikh.

“Brothers—­I demand a hearing!” he cried aloud; “I who was formerly hater of the British, preaching all manner of violence—­I have been three years detained in Germany; and I come back now, with my eyes open, to say all over India—­cease your fool’s talk about self-government and tossing mountains into the sea!  Cease making yourselves drunk with words and waving your Vedic flags and stand by the British—­your true friends——­”

At that, cries and counter-cries drowned his voice.  Books were hurled; no other weapon being handy; and Roy noted, with amused contempt, that Chandranath hastily disappeared from view.

The Sikh laughed in the face of their opposition.  Dexterously catching a book, he hurled it back; and once more made his strong voice heard above the clamour.  “Fools—­and sheep!  You may stop your ears now.  In the end I will make you hear——­”

Shouted down again, he vanished through a side exit; and, in the turmoil that followed, Roy’s hand closed securely on Dyan’s arm.  Throughout the stormy interlude, he had stood rigidly still:  a pained, puzzled frown contracting his brows.  Yet it was plain he would have slipped away without a word, but for Roy’s detaining grasp.

“You don’t go running off—­now I’ve found you,” said he good-humouredly.  “I’ve things to say.  Come along to my place and hear them.”

Dyan jerked his imprisoned arm.  “Very sorry.  I have—­important duties.”

“To-morrow night then?  I’m lodging with Krishna Lal.  And—­look here, don’t mention me to your friend the philosopher!  I know more about him than you might suppose.  If you still care a damn for me—­and the others, do what I ask—­and keep your mouth shut——­”

Dyan’s frown was hostile; but his voice was low and troubled.  “For God’s sake leave me alone, Roy.  Of course—­I care.  But that kind of caring is carnal weakness.  We, who are dedicated, must rise above such weakness, above pity and slave-morality, giving all to the Mother——­”

“Dyan—­have you forgotten—­my mother?” Roy pressed his advantage in the same low tone.

“No.  Impossible.  She was Devi—­Goddess; loveliest and kindest——­”

“Well, in her name, I ask you—­come to-morrow evening and have a talk.”

Dyan was silent; then, for the first time, he looked Roy straight in the eyes.  “In her name—­I will come.  Now let me go.”

Roy let him go.  He had achieved little enough.  But for a start it was not so bad.

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 16:  An Indian dish.]

CHAPTER XI.

     “When we have fallen through storey after storey of our vanity and
     aspiration, it is then that we begin to measure the stature of our
     friends.”—­R.L.S.