Chunerbutty, in whom old racial instincts were rekindled, had scarcely been able to restrain himself from climbing down and joining in the frenzied rush on the bull.  But the turn of events sobered him and induced him to listen at last to Noreen’s entreaties and angry demands from the Englishmen who bade him order the mahouts to take the visitors away from the horrible spectacle.  As they left they saw the Rajah’s golden chariot and the carriages of the officials being driven helter-skelter across the grass with their blood-stained and terrified occupants.  And the madly fanatical crowds surged wildly around the altar, while their cries to Kali rent the air.

The elephants lumbered swiftly in file through the deserted city, for it was now emptied of its inhabitants.  Merchants, traders, shopkeepers, workers, harlots, and criminals, all had flocked to the Moti Mahal to witness the sacrifice.

As they entered the Palace gates the mahout of the animal carrying Barclay, Dermot, and two planters called to a native standing idly in the courtyard: 

“Why wert thou not out with thy elephant, Ebrahim?”

The man addressed, a grey-bearded Mussulman, replied: 

“Shiva-ji is bad today.  I fear him greatly.”

“Is it the madness of the dhantwallah?”

“It is the madness.”

And the speaker cracked his finger-joints to avert evil luck.

Dinner was not a very jovial meal among the English guests that night.  Much to their relief the Rajah did not come in to them.  The ladies retired early to their rooms, and the men were not long in following their example.

Barclay and Dermot, who were the only occupants of the floor on which their rooms were situated—­it was the top one of the wing—­went upstairs together.  At the Deputy Superintendent’s door a man squatted and, as they approached, rose, and saluted them in military fashion.  It was Barclay’s police orderly.

“Hast got it?” asked his master in the vernacular.

“I have got it, Sahib.  It is here,” and the man placed a small covered basket in his hands.

“Bahut atcha.  Ruksat hai” (very good.  You have leave to go), said his officer, using the ordinary Indian formula for dismissing a subordinate.

“Salaam, Sahib.”

The orderly saluted and went away down the passage.

“Wait a moment, Major; I’m going with you to your room,” said the Deputy Superintendent, opening his door.  “Do you mind bringing my light along, as yours may be gone again.  My hands are full with this basket.”

When they reached Dermot’s apartment they found a lamp burning feebly in it, smoking, and giving little light.

“Looks as if there’s a fresh game on tonight,” said Dermot in a low voice.  “This is not the lamp I had before dinner.  That was a large and brilliant one.  I’m glad we brought yours along.”