To Kathlyn it seemed that she had no longer anything to do with the body of Kathlyn Hare.  The soul of another had stepped into this wearied flesh of hers and now directed its physical manifestations, while her own spirit stood gratefully and passively aloof.  Nothing could happen now; the world had grown still and calm.  The spirit drew the sleeves of the robe snugly about her arms and laid Kathlyn’s head upon them and drew her down into a profound slumber.

Half a mile to the north of the ruined temple there lay, all unsuspected by Kathlyn, a village—­a village belonging solely to the poor, mostly ryots or tillers of the soil.  The poor in Asia know but two periods of time—­for rarely do they possess such a thing as a watch or a clock—­sunset and sunrise.  Perhaps the man of the family may sit a while at dusk on his mud door-sill, with his bubbling water pipe (if he has one), and watch the stars slowly swing across the arch.  A pinch of very bad tobacco is slowly consumed; then he enters the hunt [Transcriber’s note:  hut?], flings himself upon his matting (perhaps a cotton rug, more likely a bundle of woven water reeds) and sleeps.  No one wakes him; habit rouses him at dawn.  He scrubs his teeth with a fibrous stick.  It is a part of his religious belief to keep his teeth clean.  The East Indian (Hindu or Mohammedan) has the whitest, soundest teeth in the world if the betel-nut is but temperately used.

Beyond this village lay a ruined city, now inhabited by cobras and slinking jackals.

Dawn.  A few dung fires smoldered.  From the doorway of one of the mud huts came a lean man, his naked torso streaked with wet ashes, his matted hair hanging in knots and tangles on his emaciated shoulders.  His aspect was exceedingly filthy; he was a holy man, which in this mad country signifies physical debasement, patience and fortitude such as would have adorned any other use.  A human lamprey, sticking himself always at the thin and meager board of the poor, a vile parasite, but holy!

The holy man directed his steps to the narrow beaten pathway which led to the temple, where, every morning, he performed certain rites which the poor benighted ryots believed would some day restore the ruined city and the prosperity which attends fat harvests.  The holy man had solemnly declared that it would take no less than ten years to bring about this miracle.  And the villagers fell down with their foreheads in the dust.  He was a Brahmin; the caste string hung about his neck; he was indeed holy, he who could have dwelt on the fat of the land, in maharajahs’ courts.  The least that can be said is that he performed his duties scrupulously.

So, then, the red rim of the March sun shouldered up above the rolling jungle as he came into the beaten clay court which fronted the temple.  The lion stalked only at night, rarely appearing in the daytime.  Once a month he was given a bullock, for he kept tiger and leopard away, and the villagers dwelt in peace.  The lion had escaped from Allaha, where the species were kept as an additional sport.  Since he had taken up his abode in the temple there had been fewer thefts from the cattle sheds.