“The mugger!” exclaimed one, “let the high priestess beware of the mugger, for he is strong enough to tip over the raft!”

Nearly every village which lies close to a stream has its family crocodile.  He is very sacred and thrives comfortably upon suicides and the dead, which are often cast into the river to be purified.  The Hindus are a suicidal race; the reverse of the occidental conception, suicide is a quick and glorious route to Heaven.

The current of the stream carried Kathlyn along at a fair pace; all she had to do was to pole away from the numerous sand-bars and such boulders as lifted their rugged heads above the water.

Round a bend the river widened and grew correspondingly sluggish.  She sounded with her pole.  Something hideous beyond words arose—­a fat, aged, crafty crocodile.  His corrugated snout was thrust quickly over the edge of the raft.  She struck at him wildly with the pole, and in a fury he rushed the raft, upsetting Kathlyn.

The crocodile sank and for a moment lost sight of Kathlyn, who waded frantically to the bank, up which she scrambled.  She turned in time to see the crocodile’s tearful [Transcriber’s note:  fearful?] eyes staring up at her from the water’s edge.  He presently slid back into his slimy bed; a few yellow bubbles, and he was gone.

Kathlyn’s heart became suddenly and unaccountably swollen with rage; she became primordial; she wanted to hurt, maim, kill.  Childishly she stooped and picked up heavy stones which she hurled into the water.  The instinct to live flamed so strongly in her that the crust of civilization fell away like mist before the sun, and for a long time the pure savage (which lies dormant in us all) ruled her.  She would live, live, live; she would live to forget this oriental inferno through which she was passing.

She ran toward the jungle, all unconscious of the stone she still held in her hand.  She lost all sense of time and compass; and so ran in a half circle, coming out at the river again.

The Indian twilight was rising in the east when she found herself again looking out upon the water, the stone still clutched tightly.  She gazed at the river, then at the stone, and again at the river.  The stone dropped with a thud at her feet.  The savage in her had not abated in the least; only her body was terribly worn and wearied and the robe, muddied and torn, enveloped her like a veil of ice.  Above her the lonely yellow sky; below her the sickly river; all about her silence which held a thousand menaces.  Which way should she go?  Where could she possibly find shelter for the night?