“You shall have the money,” the Dewan declared:  “but do not delay.”

That evening the Bagrees made their way to a mango grove for the feast, carrying cocoanuts, raw sugar, flour, butter, and a fragrant gum, goojul.  A large hole was dug in the ground and filled with dry cow-dung chips which were set on fire.  Sweet cakes were baked on the fire and then broken into small pieces, a portion of the fire raked to one side, and their priest sprinkled upon it the fragrant gum, calling in a loud voice:  “Maha Kali, assist and guide us in our expedition.  Keep calamity from us who worship Thee, and have made this feast in Thy honour.  Give us the sign, that we may know if it is agreeable to Thee that we destroy the enemy of Maharaja Sindhia.”

When the Bagrees had eaten much cooked rice and meat-balls, which were served on plantain leaves, they drank robustly of mhowa spirit, first spilling some of this liquor upon the ground in the name of the goddess.

The strong rank native liquor roused an enthusiasm for their approaching interview of the sacred one.  Once Ajeet laid his hand upon the pitcher that Hunsa was holding to his coarse lips, and pressing it downward, admonished: 

“Hunsa, whilst Bhowanee does not prohibit, it is an offence to approach her except in devout silence.”

The surly one flared up at this; his ungovernable rage drew his hand to a knife in his belt, and his eyes blazed with the ferocity of a wounded tiger.

“Ajeet,” he snarled, “you are now Chief, but you are not Raja to command slaves.”

With a swift twist of his wrist Ajeet snatched the pitcher from the hand of Hunsa, saying:  “Jamadar, it is the liquor that is in you, therefore you have had enough.”

But Hunsa sprang to his feet and his knife gleamed like the spitting of fire in the slanting rays of the setting sun, as he drove viciously at the heart of his Chief.  There was a crash as the blade struck and pierced the matka which Ajeet still held by its long neck.

There was a scream of terror from the throats of the women; a cry of horror from the Guru at this sacrilege—­the spilling of liquor upon the earth in anger at the feast of Bhowanee.

Ajeet’s strong fingers, slim bronzed lengths of steel, had gripped the wrist of his assailant as Bootea, darting forward, laid a hand upon the arm of Hunsa, crying, “Shame! shame!  You are like sweepers of low caste—­eaters of carrion, they who respect not Bhowanee.  Shame! you are a dog—­a tapper of liquor!”

At the touch of the Gulab on his arm, and the scorn in her eyes, Hunsa shivered and drew back, his head hanging in abasement, but his face devilish in its malignity.

Ajeet, taking a brass dish, poured water upon the hand that had gripped the wrist of Hunsa, saying, “Thus I will cleanse the defilement.”  Then he sat down upon his heels, adding:  “Guru, holy one, repeat a prayer to appease Bhowanee, then we will go into the jungle and take the auspices.”