“Mark thou, Sahib,” Jemla said once, “I do not hold that it is a merit in the sight of Allah to slay such except there is need, but when it is a jihad, a question of the supremacy of a true god, Allah, or the Sahib’s God—­which no doubt is one and the same—­as against the evil gods of destruction and depravity such as Shiva and Kali, then it is a merit to slay the children of evil.  Mahomet did much to put this matter right,” he declared; “he made good Musselmen of thousands who would otherwise have been cast into jehannum (hell), at times holding the sword over their heads as argument.  Therein Mahomet was a true prophet, a saver of souls rather than a destroyer of such.”

By noon they were drawing toward Mandhatta, and when they came to where the road from Indore to Mandhatta joined the one they were travelling, there was an increase in the stream of pilgrims and Barlow could see a look of uneasiness in the jamadar’s eyes.

There was a grove of wild mango trees on the left, running from the road down to a stream that gurgled on its way from the hills to the Nerbudda river, and Jemla said, “We might camp here, Sahib, for there is both good water and fire-wood.”

They could see, as they rested and ate, a party of Hindus down by the stream where there was a shrine to Krishna that nestled under a huge banyan that was like the roof of a cave from which dropped to earth to take roots hundreds of slender shoots, like stalactites, and whose roots, creeping from the earth like giant worms, crawled on to lave in the stream.  When they had finished eating, Jemla said, “That is a temple of the Preserver;” then he laughed a full-throated sneer:  “Allah hafiz! (God protect us), give me a fine-edged tulwar,—­and mine own is not so dull—­methinks yon grinning affair of stone would not preserve a dozen of these infidels had there been cause for anger.”

“What do the pilgrims there, for they go, it would seem, to Omkar?” Barlow queried.

“There has been a death—­perhaps it was even a year ago, and at a shrine of Krishna, especially this one that is on a water that is like a trickle of holy tears to the sacred Narbudda, straddhas (prayers for the dead) are said.  Come, Sahib, we will look upon this mummy, the only savour of grace about the infidel thing being that it perhaps brings to their hearts a restfulness, having the faith that they have helped the soul of the dead.”

Barlow rose from where he sat and they went down to where a party of a dozen were engaged in the service of an appeal to the god for rest for the soul of a dead relative.  The devotees did not resent the appearance of the two who were garbed as Moslems.  The shrine was one of those, of which there are many in India, that, curiously enough, is sacred to both Hindus and followers of the Prophet.  On a flat rock, laved by the stream, was an imprint of a foot, a legendary foot-print of Krishna, perhaps left there as he crossed the stream to gambol with the milkmaids in the meadow beyond.  And it was venerated by the Musselman because a disciple of Mohammed had attained to great sanctity by austerities up in the mountain behind, and had been buried there.