The Guru strode over to Hunsa, and holding out his thin skinny palm commanded, “Jamadar, from you a rupee; and to-morrow I will put upon the shrine of Kali cocoanuts and sweet-meats and marigolds as peace offerings.”

Hunsa took from his loin cloth a silver coin and dropped it surlily in the outstretched hand, sneering:  “To Bhowanee you will give four annas, and you will feast to the value of twelve annas, for that is the way of your craft.  The vultures always finish the bait when the tiger has been slain.”

Soon the feathery lace work of bamboos beneath which they sat were whispering to the night-wind that had roused at the dropping of the huge ball of fire in the west, and the soft radiance of a gentle moon was gilding with silver the gaunt black arms of a babool.  Then the priest said:  “Come, jamadars, we now will go deeper into the silent places and listen for the voice of Bhowanee.”

He untangled from the posture of sitting his parchment-covered matter of bones, and carrying in one hand a brocaded bag of black velvet and in the other a staff, with bowed head and mutterings started deeper into the jungle of cactus and slim whispering bamboo, followed by Ajeet, Sookdee and Hunsa.  Presently he stopped, saying, “Sit you in a line, brave chiefs, facing the great temple of Siva, which is in the mountains of the East, so that the voice of Bhowanee coming out of the silent places and from the mouth of the jackal or the jackass, shall be known to be from the right or the left, for thus will be the interpretation.”

The priest took his place in front of the jamadars, sitting with his back to them, and placed upon the ground, first a white cloth of cotton, and then the velvet bag, upon which rested a silver pickaxe.

When Ajeet saw the pickaxe he said angrily:  “That is the emblem of thugs; we be decoits, not stranglers, Guru.”

“They are equal in honour with Bhowanee,” the Guru replied:  “they slay for profit, even as you do, and among you are those who are thugs, for I minister to both.”

Then the Guru buried his shrivelled skull in his thin hands and drooped forward in silent listening.  Ajeet objected no more, and in the new silence they could hear the shrill rasping of cicadae in the foliage of a gigantic elephant-creeper, that, like a huge python, crawled its way from branch to branch, sprawling across a dozen stately trees.  From somewhere beyond was a steady “tonk! tonk! tonk!”—­like the beat of wood against a hollow pipe—­of the little green-plumaged coppersmith bird.  A honey-badger came timorously creeping, his feet shuffling the fallen leaves, peered at the strange figures of the men, and, at the move of an arm, fled scurrying through the stillness with the noise of some great creature.

Suddenly the jungle was stilled, even from the voice of the rasping cicadae; the leaves had ceased to whisper, for the wind had hushed.  The devotees could hear the beating of their hearts in the strain of waiting for a manifestation from the dread goddess.  The white-robed figure of the Guru was like a shrivelled statue of alabaster where the faint moon picked it out in blotches as the light filtered through leaves above.