The dawn rose, but this time he gave no signal for halting:  and the cool of morning was almost ended when he led them out through the last broken crests of the ridge and, pointing to a broad plain at their feet, told them that henceforward they might fare in safety.  A broad road traversed the plain, and beside it, some ten to twelve miles from the base of the foothills, twinkled the white walls of a rest-house.

“There,” said he, pointing, “either to-day or to-morrow will pass the trader Afzul Khan:  and if indeed ye come from Surat—­”

His mild eyes, as he pointed, were turned upon Menzies, who broke out in amazement:  “For certain Afzul Khan is known to us, as debtor should be to creditor.  But how knowest thou either that he passes this way or that we come from Surat?”

“It is enough that I know.”

“Either come with us then,” Menzies pressed him, “and at the rest-house Afzul Khan shall fill thy bowl with gold-dust; or remain here, and I will send him.”

“Why should he do aught so witless?”

Menzies laughed awkwardly.  “Though money be useless to thee, holy man, I dare say thy villagers might be the gladder for it.”

The hermit shook his head.

“Anyhow,” broke in Prior, addressing Menzies in English, “we must do something for him, if only in justice to some folks who will be glad enough to see us back alive.”

“My friend here,” Menzies interpreted, “has parents living, and is their only son.  For me, I have a wife and three children.  For their sakes, therefore—­”

But the hermit put up a hand.  “Something I did for their sakes, giving you back to the chains they will hang upon you.  It was weakness in me, and no cause for thanks.”  He turned his begging bowl so that it shone in the sun:  an ant clung to it, crawling on its polished side.  “If ye have sons, I may live belike to see them pass my way.”

“That is not likely.”

“Who knows?” The old man’s eyes rested on Bhagwan Dass.  “Unlikelier things have befallen me while I sat yonder.  See—­” he turned the bowl in his hand and nodded towards the ant running hither and thither upon it.  “What happens to him that would not likewise happen if he stood still?”

“There is food at the rest-house,” Menzies persisted; “but I take it you can find food on your way back, even though since starting we have seen none pass your lips:  and that is two days.”

“It will be yet two days before I feast again:  for I drink not save of the spring by which you found me, and I eat no food the taste of which I cannot wash from me in its water.”

Menzies and Prior eyed one another.  “Cracked as an old bell!” said the younger man in English, and laughed.

“Is it a vow?” Menzies asked.

“It is a vow.”

“But tell me,” put in Prior, “does the water of your spring differ from that of a thousand others on these hills?”