The question caught Captain Barlow unaware; he had not formulated anything—­it had all been nebulous, this dread.  He hesitated, fearing to voice that which perhaps did not exist in the minds of either the priest or Bootea.

The girl perceived the hesitancy and spoke rapidly in a low voice to the priest.

“Captain Sahib,” the Swami began, “I see that thy heart is inclined to the woman, and it is to be admired, for she is, as thou thinkest, like a flower of the forest.  But also, Captain Sahib, thy heart is the heart of a soldier, of a brave man, the light of valour is in thine eyes, in thy face, and I would ask thee to be brave, and instead of being cast in sorrow because of what I am going to tell thee, thou must realise that it is for the good of the woman whose face is in thy heart.  To-day she insures to her soul a place in kattas, the heaven of Siva, the abiding place of Brahm, the Creator of all that is.”

Barlow felt himself reel at this sudden confirmation of his fears—­the blow.  The cry “Kurban” that he had heard on the bridge was a reality—­a human sacrifice.

“God!” he cried in a voice of anguish, “it can’t be.  Young and beautiful and good, to die—­it’s wrong.  I forbid such a cruel, wanton sacrifice of a sweet life.”

The Swami, taking a step toward the door, swept his long thin arm with a gesture that embraced the thousands beyond.

“Captain Sahib,” he said solemnly, “if thou wert to raise thy voice in anger against this holy, soul-redeeming observance thou wouldst be torn to pieces; not even I could stop them if insult were offered to Omkar.  And, besides, the Englay Raj would call thee accursed for breeding hate in the hearts of the Hindus through the sacrilege of an insult to the High Priest of the Temple of Omkar.  This is the territory of the Mahrattas, and the English have no authority here.”

Barlow knew that he was helpless.  Even if there were jurisdiction of the British, one against thousands of religious fanatics would avail nothing.

The priest saw the torture in the man’s face, and continued:  “The woman has told me much.  Her heart is so with thee that it is already dead.  Thou canst not take her to thy people, for the living hell is even worse than the hell beyond.  If thou lovest the woman glory in her release from pain of spirit, from the degradation of being outcast—­that she judges wisely, and there is not upon her soul the sin of taking her own life, for if she went with thee, proud and high-born as she is, it would come to that, Sahib—­thou knowest it.  There are things that cannot be said by me concerning the woman; vows having been taken in the sanctity of a temple.”

A figment of the rumour Barlow had heard that Bootea was Princess Kumari floated through his mind, but that did not matter; Bootea as Bootea was the sweetest woman he had ever known.  It must be that she had filled his heart with love.