“Pundita, they hissed us as we passed.”

“Not the soldiers, my Lord.”

“And this poor man!  Pundita, he was murdered, and I am powerless to avenge him.  It was Umballa; but what proof have I?  None, none!  Well, for me there is left but one thing; to leave Allaha for good.  We two shall go to some country where honor and kindness are not crimes but virtues.”

“My Lord, it is our new religion.”

“And shall we hold to it and go, or repudiate it and stay?”

“I am my Lord’s chattel; but I would despise him if he took the base course.”

“And so should I, flower of my heart!” Ramabai folded his arms and stared down moodily at the man who, had he lived, could have made Pundita his successor.  “Pundita, I have not yet dared tell you all; but here, in the presence of death, truth will out.  We can not leave.  Confiscation of property and death face us at every gate.  No!  Umballa proposes to crush me gradually and make my life a hell.  No man who was my friend now dares receive me in his house.  Worship is denied us, unless we worship in secret.  There is one pathway open.”  He paused.

“And what is that, my Lord?”

“To kneel in the temple and renounce our religion.  Do we that, and we are free to leave Allaha.”

Pundita smiled.  “My Lord is not capable of so vile an act.”

“No.”

And hand in hand they stood before the catafalque forgetting everything but the perfect understanding between them.

“Ai, ai!”

It was but a murmur; and the two turned to witness the approach of the woman of the zenana.  She flung herself down before the catafalque, passionately kissing the shroud.  She leaned back and beat her breast and wailed.  Ramabai was vastly puzzled over this demonstration.  That a handsome young woman should wail over the corpse of an old man who had never been anything to her might have an interpretation far removed from sorrow.  Always in sympathy, however, with those bowed with grief, Ramabai stooped and attempted to raise her.

She shrank from his touch, looked up and for the first time seemed to be aware of his presence.  Like a bubble under water, that which had been striving for utterance came to the surface.  She snatched one of Ramabai’s hands.

“Ai, ai!  I am wretched.  Lord, wretched!  There is hot lead in my heart and poison in my brain!  I will confess, confess!”

Ramabai and Pundita gazed at each other, astonished.

“What is it?  What do you wish to confess?” cried Ramabai quickly.  “Perhaps . . .”

She clung to his hand.  “They will order my death by the silken cord.  I am afraid.  Krishna fend for me!”

“What do you know?”

“His majesty was murdered!” she whispered.

“I know that,” replied Ramabai.  “But who murdered him?  Who built that cage in the palanquin?  Who put the tiger there?  Who beat and overpowered the real bearers and confiscated their turbans?  Speak, girl; and if you can prove these things, there will be no silken cord.”