He hunted in the folds of his pink cloak, ran a hand under one, and thrust into the firelight a foot-long embroidered presentment of the great god Krishna, playing on a flute.  The heavy jowl, the staring eye, and the blue-black moustache of the god made up a far-off resemblance to Mulvaney.

’The blaze was gone in a wink, but the whole schame came to me thin.  I believe I was mad too.  I slid the off-shutter open an’ rowled out into the dhark behind the elephint-head pillar, tucked up my trousies to my knees, slipped off my boots an’ tuk a general hould av all the pink linin’ av the palanquin.  Glory be, ut ripped out like a woman’s dhriss whin you tread on ut at a sergeants’ ball, an’ a bottle came with ut.  I tuk the bottle an’ the next minut I was out av the dhark av the pillar, the pink linin’ wrapped round me most graceful, the music thunderin’ like kettledrums, an’ a could draft blowin’ round my bare legs.  By this hand that did ut, I was Khrishna tootlin’ on the flute—­the god that the rig’mental chaplain talks about.  A sweet sight I must ha’ looked.  I knew my eyes were big, and my face was wax-white, an’ at the worst I must ha’ looked like a ghost.  But they took me for the livin’ god.  The music stopped, and the women were dead dumb an’ I crooked my legs like a shepherd on a china basin, an’ I did the ghost-waggle with my feet as I had done ut at the rig’mental theatre many times, an’ I slid acrost the width av that temple in front av the she-god tootlin’ on the beer bottle.’

‘Wot did you toot?’ demanded Ortheris the practical.

‘Me?  Oh!’ Mulvaney sprang up, suiting the action to the word, and sliding gravely in front of us, a dilapidated but imposing deity in the half light.  ’I sang—­

    ’Only say
     You’ll be Mrs. Brallaghan. 
     Don’t say nay,
     Charmin’ Judy Callaghan.

I didn’t know me own voice when I sang.  An’ oh! ’twas pitiful to see the women.  The darlin’s were down on their faces.  Whin I passed the last wan I cud see her poor little fingers workin’ one in another as if she wanted to touch my feet.  So I dhrew the tail av this pink overcoat over her head for the greater honour, an’ I slid into the dhark on the other side av the temple, and fetched up in the arms av a big fat priest.  All I wanted was to get away clear.  So I tuk him by his greasy throat an’ shut the speech out av him.  “Out!” sez I.  “Which way, ye fat heathen?”—­ “Oh!” sez he.  “Man,” sez I.  “White man, soldier man, common soldier man.  Where in the name av confusion is the back door?” The women in the temple were still on their faces, an’ a young priest was holdin’ out his arms above their heads.