Again Bootea spoke in a low voice to the priest, and he said:  “Sahib, I go forth for a little, for there are matters to arrange.  I see yonder the sixteen Brahmins who, according to our rites, assemble when one is to pass at the Shrine of Omkar to kailas.”

His large luminous eyes rested with tolerant placidity upon the face of this man whom he must consider, according to his tenets, as a creature antagonistic to the true gods, and said, in his soft, modulated voice:  “Thou art young, Sahib, and full of the life force which is essential to the things of the earth—­thou art like the blossom of the mhowa tree that comes forth upon bare limbs before the maturity of its foliage, it is then, as thou art, joyous in the freshness of awaking life.  But life means eternity, the huge cycle that has been since Indra’s birth.  Life here is but a step, a transition from condition to condition, and the woman, by one act of sacrifice, attains to the blissful peace that many livings of reincarnated body would not achieve.  It is written in the law of Brahm that if one sacrifices his life, this phase of it, to Omkar, who is Siva, even though he had slain a Brahmin he shall be forgiven, and sit in heaven with the Gandharvas (angels).  But it is also written that whosoever turns back in terror, each step that he takes shall be equivalent to the guilt of killing a Brahmin.”

The priest’s voice had risen in sonorous cadence until it was compelling.

Bootea trembled like a wind-wavered leaf.

To Barlow it was horrible, the mad infatuation of a man prostrate before false gods, idols, a rabid materialism.  That one, to fall crushed and bleeding from the dizzy height of the ledge of sacrifice upon a red-daubed stone representation of the repulsive emblem, could thus wipe out the deadly sin of murder, was, even spiritually, impossible.

The priest, his soul submerged by the sophistry of his faith, passed from the gloomed cloister to the open sunlight.

And Barlow, conscious of his helplessness unless Bootea would now yield to his entreaties and forswear the horrible sacrifice, turned to the girl, his face drawn and haggard, and his voice, when he spoke, vibrating tremulously from the pressure of his despair.  He held out his arms, and Bootea threw herself against his breast and sobbed.

“Come back to Chunda with me, Gulab,” Barlow pleaded.

“No, Sahib,” she panted, “it cannot be.”

“But I love you, Bootea,” he whispered.

“And Bootea loves the Sahib,” and her eyes, as she lifted her face, were wonderful.  “There,” she continued, “the Sahib could not make the nika (marriage) with Bootea, both our souls would be lost.  But it is not forbidden,—­even if it were and was a sin, all sins will be forgiven Bootea before the sun sets,—­and if the Sahib permits it Bootea will wed herself now to the one she loves.  Hold me in your arms—­tight, lest I die before it is time.”