The moon—­and that, too, was custom-rested with her lower rim one full hand’s breadth above the temple dome as viewed from the palace-gate, when a gong clanged resonantly, died to silence, music of pipes and cymbals broke on the evening quiet, and the strange procession started from the temple door, the Maharajah leading.

Generally it passed uninterrupted over the intervening street to the palace-entrance, between the ranks of a salaaming, silent crowd, and disappeared from view.  This time, though, for the first time in living memory, and possibly for the first time in all history, the unforeseen, amazing happened.  The procession stopped.  Moon-bathed, between the carved posts of the palace-gate, two people blocked the way.

The music ceased.  The sudden silence framed itself against the distant thunder of a hundred drums.  The crowd—­all heads bowed, as decreed —­drew in its breath and held it.  A sea of pugrees moved as brown eyes looked up surreptitiously—­stared—­memorized—­and then looked down again.  There was no precedent for this happening, and even the Maharajah and the priests were at a momentary loss—­stood waiting, staring—­and said nothing.

“Maharajah-sahib!—­I must interrupt your ceremony.  I must have word with you at once!”

It was Duncan McClean, bareheaded, holding his daughter’s hand.  They had no weapons; they were messengers of peace, protesting, or so they looked.  No longer timid, but resigned to what might happen—­they held each other’s hands, and blocked the way of Siva’s votaries—­ Siva’s tools—­and Siva’s ritual.

Jaimihr whispered to his brother—­the first time he had dared one word to him in person for years—­the high priest of the temple pressed forward angrily, saying nothing, but trying to combine rage and dignity with an attempt to turn the incident to priestly advantage.  Surely this was a crisis out of which the priests must come triumphant; they held all the cards—­knew how and when rebellion was timed, and could compare, as the principals themselves could not do, Howrah’s strength with Jaimihr’s.  And the priests had the crowd to back them—­ the ignorant, superstitious crowd that can make or dethrone emperors.

But some strange freak of real dignity—­curiosity perhaps, or possibly occasion—­spurred desire to act of his own initiative and keep the high priest in his place—­impelled the Maharajah in that minute.  Men said afterward that Jaimihr had whispered to him advice which he knew was barbed because it was his brother whispering, and that he promptly did the opposite; but, whatever the motive, he drew himself up in all his jewelled splendor and demanded:  “What do you people wish?”

The McCleans were given no time to reply.  The priests did not see fit to let the reins of this occasion slip; the word went out, panic-voiced, that sacrilege to Siva was afoot.

“Slay them!  Slay them!” yelled the crowd.  “They violate the sacred rites!”