Now, a Rangar is a man whose ancestors were Hindoos but who became converts to Islam.  Like all proselytes, they adhere more enthusiastically to their religion than do the men whose mother creed it is; and the fact that the Rangars originally became converts under duress is often thrown in their teeth by the Hindoos, who gain nothing in the way of brotherly regard in the process.  A Rangar hates a Hindoo as enthusiastically as he loves a fight.  Ali Partab began to drum his fingers on his teeth and to exhibit less impatience to be off.

“There is no knowing, sahib.  I, too, am no advocate of superstitious practices involving cruelty.  I might get a letter through.  My commission from the risaldar-sahib would include all honorable matters not obstructive to the main issue.  I have certain funds—­”

“I, too, have funds,” smiled the missionary.

“I am not allowed, sahib, to involve myself in any brawl until after my business is accomplished.  It would be necessary first to assure me on that point.  My honor is involved in that matter.  To whom, and of what nature, would the letter be?”

“A letter to the Company’s Resident at Abu, reporting to him that Hindoo widows are still compelled in this city to burn themselves to death above their husbands’ funeral pyres.”

The Rajput grinned.  “Does the Resident sahib not know it, then?”

“There will be no chance of his not knowing should my report reach him!”

“I will see, sahib, what can be done, then, in the matter.  If I can find a man, I will bring him to you.”

The missionary thanked him and stood watching as the Rajput rode away.  When the horseman’s free, lean back had vanished in the inky darkness his eyes wandered over to a point where tongues of flame licked upward, casting a dull, dancing, crimson glow on the hot sky.  Here and there, silhouetted in the firelight, he could see the pugrees and occasional long poles of men who prodded at the embers.  Ululating through the din of tom-toms he could catch the wails of women.  He shuddered, prayed a little, and went in.

That day even the little bazaar fosterlings, whom he had begged, and coaxed, and taught, had all deserted to be present at the burning of three widows.  Even the lepers in the tiny hospital that he had started had limped out for a distant view.  He had watched a year’s work all disintegrating in a minute at the call of bestial, loathsome, blood-hungry superstition.

And he was a man of iron, as Christian missionaries go.  He had been hard-bitten in his youth and trained in a hard, grim school.  In the Isle of Skye he had seen the little cabin where his mother lived pulled down to make more room for a fifty-thousand-acre deer-forest.  He had seen his mother beg.

He had worked his way to Edinburgh, toiled at starvation wages for the sake of leave to learn at night, burned midnight oil, and failed at the end of it, through ill health, to pass for his degree.