“Even so, father,” said Hanuman.  “And to the South I go who am the oldest of the Gods as men know the Gods, and presently I touch the shrines of the New Faith and the Woman whom we know is hewn twelve-armed, and still they call her Mary.”

“Small thanks, brother,” said the Tigress.  “I am that Woman.”

“Even so, sister; and I go West among the fire-carriages, and stand before the bridge-builders in many shapes, and because of me they change their faiths and are very wise.  Ho! ho!  I am the builder of bridges, indeed—­bridges between this and that, and each bridge leads surely to Us in the end.  Be content, Gunga.  Neither these men nor those that follow them mock thee at all.”

“Am I alone, then, Heavenly Ones?  Shall I smooth out my flood lest unhappily I bear away their walls?  Will Indra dry my springs in the hills and make me crawl humbly between their wharfs?  Shall I bury me in the sand ere I offend?”

“And all for the sake of a little iron bar with the fire-carriage atop.  Truly, Mother Gunga is always young!” said Ganesh the Elephant.  “A child had not spoken more foolishly.  Let the dirt dig in the dirt ere it return to the dirt.  I know only that my people grow rich and praise me.  Shiv has said that the men of the schools do not forget; Bhairon is content for his crowd of the Common People; and Hanuman laughs.”

“Surely I laugh,” said the Ape.  “My altars are few beside those of Ganesh or Bhairon, but the fire-carriages bring me new worshippers from beyond the Black Water—­the men who believe that their God is toil.  I run before them beckoning, and they follow Hanuman.”

“Give them the toil that they desire, then,” said the River.  “Make a bar across my flood and throw the water back upon the bridge.  Once thou wast strong in Lanka, Hanuman.  Stoop and lift my bed.”

“Who gives life can take life.”  The Ape scratched in the mud with a long forefinger.  “And yet, who would profit by the killing?  Very many would die.”

There came up from the water a snatch of a love-song such as the boys sing when they watch their cattle in the noon heats of late spring.  The Parrot screamed joyously, sidling along his branch with lowered head as the song grew louder, and in a patch of clear moonlight stood revealed the young herd, the darling of the Gopis, the idol of dreaming maids and of mothers ere their children are born Krishna the Well-beloved.  He stooped to knot up his long wet hair, and the Parrot fluttered to his shoulder.

“Fleeting and singing, and singing and fleeting,” hiccupped Bhairon.  “Those make thee late for the council, brother.”

“And then?” said Krishna, with a laugh, throwing back his head.  “Ye can do little without me or Karma here.”  He fondled the Parrot’s plumage and laughed again.  “What is this sitting and talking together?  I heard Mother Gunga roaring in the dark, and so came quickly from a hut where I lay warm.  And what have ye done to Karma, that he is so wet and silent?  And what does Mother Gunga here?  Are the heavens full that ye must come paddling in the mud beast-wise?  Karma, what do they do?”