She stood for a moment laughing silently, looking down upon him, and turning, ran swiftly across the flags to the block of fallen stones.  There she paused and glanced at the white man bound to the wall with the light of battle in his eyes, before she disappeared, beckoning to the priest who followed as she ran down the passage of the gods, making obeisance before them as she passed.

CHAPTER XLIX

  “The soil out of which such men as he are made
  is good to be born on, good to live on,
  good to die for, and to be buried in.”—­Lowell.

Leonie lay motionless on the stained stone before the altar; her hair, pulled back clear from her neck, swept behind her head like a cascade of rust-coloured water to the floor; her hands were clasped between her breasts, and her great unfathomable eyes stared up into those of the stone woman who looked down at her and seemed to laugh with joy at her long coveted prize.

In every corner black shapes danced; advancing, retreating, springing towards the roof and vanishing utterly.  The place seemed infested with goblins, or devils, things of untold evilness and vice, although, in reality, they were but the shadows thrown by the little lights which were like tongues licking the lips of darkness in sensuous anticipation of the coming feast of blood.

The old priest stood looking up at his god with perplexity in his sunken eyes.

Arrayed in snow-white garment, with long hair hanging down, he held the knife of sacrifice in one hand, and in the other the sacred roomal.

The terrible picture shone softly in the light of the full moon which struck straight down upon the altar through a hole in the ruined roof.

“Tell thy servant thy pleasure, O Black One!” prayed the priest, swaying slightly to and fro.  “Make him understand it the roomal shall be knotted about the neck of this white sacrifice, or if the knife shall draw a necklace of red about the white neck and upon the white breast.  Give me an answer, O Mother, that I may right the wrong of many moons ago.  A sign, a sign, O Mother!”

As he spoke; and for no apparent reason, Leonie’s hands unclasped, her arms opened and fell towards her sides, leaving the beautiful breast bare with the jewel in shape and colour of a cat’s eye winking craftily with the cunning and knowledge of the sins of all ages, just above the heart.

The priest shouted in worship, and his words, caught, echoed and re-echoed from the dome, drowned the sound of footsteps running at high speed across the flower-strewn floor.

Madhu Krishnaghar, naked save for the turban which bound his handsome head and the loin cloth which girt the slender middle, sped like the wind to the rescue of his beloved.

In the black shades of the jungle, understanding at last that for him there could be no life outside the life of the white woman he loved, and no happiness outside her happiness, he had raced Time down the jungle path, through the outer gates and temple door, pausing not for the fraction of a second; realising, as he ran, that upon his speed alone depended the life of his beloved.  And even as the priest flung back his arm with a scream of ecstasy, the knife was wrenched out of his hand from behind.