“Was it in a storm like this,” thought Sheo Deo, “that the awful voice was heard from the mountain, Thou shalt make no graven image?”
Then came a more terrible crash than Sheo Deo had ever before heard; and the moment after there was the smell of burning, and then the glare of fire above. Lo! the lightning had struck the hut, and the thatch was blazing over the head of the wretched boy, who, paralyzed as he was, could not even crawl out of the burning dwelling.
The red light glared on the image of Krishna; to the terrified Sheo Deo it seemed almost as if the idol had life!
“Help me—save me! Oh! save thy worshipper, great Krishna!” he cried; while the heat around him grew more and more fearful, even as that of a furnace.
But the image stirred not, heard not. The sparks were kindling upon it.
Then, in the agony of his terror, the poor Hindu bethought him of the Christian’s powerful God. Even in the presence of his idol he clasped his hands and uttered the cry, “O Lord Jesus Christ, if Thou canst save me, oh! save me!”
At that moment Sheosahai burst into the blazing hut.
The Brahmin looked at his helpless boy lying on the mat, and then on the idol which he had so long worshipped. He had no time to save both; which should he leave to the devouring flames? Only one day previously the Hindu might have hesitated in making his choice, but he did not hesitate now. He caught up his son in his arms; he bore him forth from the fiery furnace. “If Krishna be a god he will save himself,” muttered the Brahmin.
The hut was soon burned to ashes, and the idol lay a heap of cinders within it.