The Bull turned the cud in his mouth and answered slowly:  “If the Justice of the Gods caught all who made a mock of holy things there would be many dark altars in the land, mother.”

“But this goes beyond a mock,” said the Tigress, darting forward a griping paw.  “Thou knowest, Shiv, and ye, too, Heavenly Ones; ye know that they have defiled Gunga.  Surely they must come to the Destroyer.  Let Indra judge.”

The Buck made no movement as he answered:  “How long has this evil been?

“Three years, as men count years,” said the Mugger, close pressed to the earth.

“Does Mother Gunga die, then, in a year, that she is so anxious to see vengeance now?  The deep sea was where she runs but yesterday, and to-morrow the sea shall cover her again as the Gods count that which men call time.  Can any say that this their bridge endures till to-morrow?” said the Buck.

There was a long hush, and in the clearing of the storm the full moon stood up above the dripping trees.

“Judge ye, then,” said the River, sullenly.  “I have spoken my shame.  The flood falls still.  I can do no more.”

“For my own part,”—­it was the voice of the great Ape seated within the shrine—­“it pleases me well to watch these men, remembering that I also builded no small bridge in the world’s youth.”

“They say, too,” snarled the Tiger, “that these men came of the wreck of thy armies, Hanuman, and therefore thou hast aided—­”

“They toil as my armies toiled in Lanka, and they believe that their toil endures.  Indra is too high, but Shiv, thou knowest how the land is threaded with their fire-carriages.”

“Yea, I know,” said the Bull.  “Their Gods instructed them in the matter.”

A laugh ran round the circle.

“Their Gods!  What should their Gods know?  They were born yesterday, and those that made them are scarcely yet cold,” said the Mugger.  “To-morrow their Gods will die.”

“Ho!” said Peroo.  “Mother Gunga talks good talk.  I told that to the padre-sahib who preached on the Mombassa, and he asked the Burra Malum to put me in irons for a great rudeness.”

“Surely they make these things to please their Gods,” said the Bull again.

“Not altogether,” the Elephant rolled forth.  “It is for the profit of my mahajuns—­my fat money-lenders that worship me at each new year, when they draw my image at the head of the account-books.  I, looking over their shoulders by lamplight, see that the names in the books are those of men in far places—­for all the towns are drawn together by the fire-carriage, and the money comes and goes swiftly, and the account-books grow as fat as—­myself.  And I, who am Ganesh of Good Luck, I bless my peoples.”

“They have changed the face of the land-which is my land.  They have killed and made new towns on my banks,” said the Mugger.

“It is but the shifting of a little dirt.  Let the dirt dig in the dirt if it pleases the dirt,” answered the Elephant.