Dyan was silent a long while, staring into the fire.  “Very strange.  I had no idea,” he said at last.  The words came slowly, as if he were thinking aloud.  “I was angry—­miserable; hating you all; even—­very nearly—­her.  Then came the War; and I thought—­now our countries will become like one.  I will win her by some brave action—­she who is the spirit of courage.  From France, after all that praise of Indians in the papers, I wrote again.  No use.  After that, I hoped by some brave action, I might be killed.  Instead, through stupid carelessness, I am only maimed—­as you see.  I was foolishly angry when Indian troops were sent away from France:  and my heart became hard like a nut.”—­He had emerged from his dream now and was frankly addressing Roy——­“I knew, if I went home, they would insist I should marry.  Quite natural.  But for me—­not thinkable.  Yet I must go back to India.  And there, in Bombay, I heard Chandranath speak.  He was just back from deportation; and to me his words were like leaping flames.  All the fire of my passion—­choked up in me—­could flow freely in service of the Mother.  I became intoxicated with the creed of my new comrades:  there is neither truth nor untruth, right nor wrong; there is only the Mother.  I was filled with the joy of dedication and unquestioning surrender.  It gave me visions like opium dreams.  Both kinds of opium I have taken freely,—­while walking in my sleep.  I was ready for taking life; any desperate deed.  Instead—­Tcha!  I have to take money, like a common dacoit, because police must be bribed, soldiers tempted, meetings multiplied....”

“It takes more than the blood of white goats to oil the wheels of your chariot,” said Roy, very quiet, but rather grim.  “And he’s not the man to do his own dirty work—­eh?”

“No.  He is only very clever to dress it up in fine arguments.  All money is the Mother’s.  Only they are thieves who selfishly hide it in banks and safes.  Those who release it for her use are deliverers ...” he broke off with a harsh laugh.  “In spite of education, we Indians are too easily played upon, Roy.  If you had not spoken—­of her, I might have swallowed—­even that.  Thieving—­bah!  Killing is man’s work.  There is sanction in the Gita——­”

“Sanction be damned!” Roy cut in sharply.  “You might as well say Shakespeare sanctioned theft because he wrote, ’Who steals my purse steals trash!’ The only sanction worth anything is inside you.  And you didn’t seem to find it there.  But let’s get at the point.  Did you refuse?”

“No.  Only—­for the first time, I demurred; and because the need is urgent, he became very violent—­in language.  It was almost a quarrel.”

“Clear proof you scored!  Did you mention—­Aruna?”

Dyan shook his head.  “If I become violent, it is not only language——­”

“No.  You’re a man.  And now you’re awake again, I can tell you things—­but I can’t stay all night.”