O Madhu, you splendid heathen, who defied the anger of your strange gods for the love in your noble heart.

“Ha!” said the old man as he swung round in fury; then he smiled and opened wide his arms.  “Thou!  O my son! thou!  Thou wouldst offer the great sacrifice thyself to our most gentle mother.  And art thou not in the right?  Thine has been the task and the toil, therefore is it meet that thou shouldst have the reward.”

He laid his hands upon the shoulders of the youth, who straightway gripped the veined old wrists and raised the withered arms high up above their heads, while their eyes met in a sudden-born, subconscious enmity, and the knife lay glittering along the wrinkled brown skin.

Only for an instant, and Madhu let go his hold, and turning, stood looking down upon the jewel above the woman’s heart.  As he looked, the thing, catching the reflections of the lights, shone strangely bright upon the snow-white skin, and the lust of blood swept him from head to foot.

He longed to drive the dagger through the breast above the shining jewel; he craved to see the whiteness of the skin stained with red, to throw himself upon the still form and shut the dead mouth with kisses.

He was mad with passion, intoxicated with the heavy perfumed air, drunk with the atmosphere of his surroundings, and his slim body shook as he ran the needle-point of the dagger into his own breast.

He closed his eyes in the ecstasy of that pain which is twin to the ecstasy of desire fulfilled, and in their closing woke suddenly to the purity of his strange love.  He turned with a snarl and hit up the old man’s hand as it almost touched the nape of his neck, and stretching wide his arms made a shield of his body between Leonie and the intent he read in the priest’s eyes, just as a brick fell and split to pieces at their feet.

“Linger not, my son,” said the old priest fiercely.  “Behold! the rites have been performed, the chants sung, and the offerings made.  Drive the knife home, and give drink to thy mother of that which she loves.  Hasten! for she is angry at thy slowness, and the very earth trembles at her wrath.”

But Madhu Krishnaghar looked straight back into the fierce, suspicious old eyes, and moved quickly towards the priest who, taken by surprise, retreated hurriedly.

“Father!” came the words in the musical, steady voice.  “O servant of the Black One, I cannot, nay, I will not, for I love yon white woman with a love passing all understanding.  Nay, hearken!  A sacrifice there must be this night, and there shall be one.  Even me, O my Father.  Let it suffice, for behold is my love so great, that she, the slender white flower, seems but one with me.  Let her go, let her go, and lay me on the stone, warm with the life of her dear body, and drive the knife through my heart, that through my love peace may be made with thy god and my god!”