The talk among the traders—­darkly hinted, most of it, and couched in metaphor—­was all of blood, and what would follow on the letting of it.  Now and then a loud-mouthed boaster would throw caution to the winds and speak openly of a grim day coming for the British; he would be checked instantly by wiser men, but not before Ali Partab had heard enough to add to his private store of information.

Priests came from a dozen cities to the eastward, all nominally after pilgrims for the sacred places, but all strangely indifferent to their quest.  They preferred, it would seem, to sit in rings with chance-met ruffians—­with believers and unbelievers alike—­even with men of no caste at all—­and talk of other things than pilgrimages.

“Next year, one hundred years ago the English conquered India.  Remember ye the prophecy?  One hundred years they had!  This, then, is the last year.  Whom the gods would whelm they first deprive of reason; mark ye this!  The cartridges they serve out to the sepoys now are smeared with the blended fat of cows and pigs.  Knowing that we Hindoos hold the cow a sacred beast, they do this sacrilege—­and why?  They would make us bite the cartridges and lose our caste.  And why again?  Because they would make us Christians!  That is the truth!  Else why are the Christian missionaries here in Howrah?”

The listeners would nod while the little red fires glowed and purred above the pipes, and others not included in the circle strained forward through the dark to listen.

“The gods get ready now!  Are ye ready?”

Elsewhere, a hadji—­green-turbaned from the pilgrimage to Mecca—­ would hold out to a throng of true believers.

“Ay!  Pig’s fat on the cartridges!  The new drill is that the sepoy bites the cartridge first, to spill a little powder and make priming.  Which true believer wishes to defile himself with pig’s fat?  Why do they this?  Why are the Christian missionaries here?  Ask both riddles with one breath, for both two are one!”

“Slay, then!”

“Up now, and slay!”

There would be an instant, eager restlessness, while Ali Partab would glance over to where the horses stood, and would wonder why the word that loosed him was so long in coming.  The hadji would calm his listeners and tell them to get ready, but be still and await the sign.

“There were to be one hundred years, ran the prophecy; but ninety-nine and a portion have yet run.  Wait for the hour!”

Then, for perhaps the hundredth time, Ali Partab would pretend that movement alone could save one or other of his horses from heat apoplexy.  He would mount, and ride at a walking pace through the streets that seemed like a night view of a stricken battle-field, turn down by the palace wall, and then canter to the schoolhouse, where the hag—­wiser than her mistress—­would be sleeping in the open.

“Thou!  Mother of a murrain!  Toothless one!  Is there no word yet?”