“But who will believe a poor woman of the zenana?”

“I will.”

“But you can not save men from the cord.  They have taken away your power.”

“And you shall give it back to me!”

“I?”

“Even so.  Come with me now, to the temple.”

“The temple?”

“Aye; where all the soldiers are, the priests . . . and Durga Ram!”

“Ai, ai!  Durga Ram; it was he!  And I helped him, thus:  I secured permission to go into the bazaars.  There an assault took place under the command of Durga Ram, and my bearers were made prisoners.  Durga Ram, disguised as a bearer, himself freed the tiger which killed the king.  Yes!  To the temple!  She who confesses in the temple, her person is sacred.  It is the law, the law!  I had forgot!  To the temple, my Lord!”

Before the high tribunal of priests, before the unhappy Kathlyn, before the astonished Umballa, appeared Ramabai and Pundita, between them the young woman of the zenana, now almost dead with terror.

“Hold!” cried Ramabai when the soldiers started toward him to eject him from the temple.

“What!” said Umballa; “will you recant?”

“No, Durga Ram.  I stand here before you all, an accuser!  I know the law.  Will you, wise and venerable priests, you men of Allaha, you soldiers, serve a murderer?  Will you,” with a wave of his hand toward the priests, “stand sponsor to the man who deliberately planned and executed the miserable death of our king?  Shall it fly to Benares, this news that Allaha permits itself to be ruled and bullied by a common murderer; a man without family, a liar and a cheat?  Durga Ram, who slew the king; you turned upon the hand that had fed and clothed you and raised you to power. . . .  Wait!  Let this woman speak!”

A dramatic moment followed; a silence so tense that the fluttering wings of the doves in the high arches could be heard distinctly.  Ramabai was a great politician.  He had struck not only wisely but swiftly before his public.  Had he come before the priests and Umballa alone, he would have died on the spot.  But there was no way of covering up this accusation, so bold, direct; it would have to be investigated.

Upon her knees, her arms outstretched toward the scowling priests, the woman of the zenana tremblingly told her tale:  how she had saved Umballa during the revolt; how she had secured him shelter with her sister, who was a dancer; how she had visited Umballa in his secret chamber; how he had confided to her his plans; how she had seen him with her own eyes become one of the fake bearers of the palanquin.

“The woman lies because I spurned her!” roared Umballa.

“Away with her!” cried the chief priest, inwardly cursing Umballa for having permitted this woman to live when she knew so much.  “Away with her!”

“The law!” the woman wailed.  “The sanctity of the temple is mine!”