“He will be imprisoned, perhaps murdered,” cried Alicia.
“Likely enough,” was the rejoinder. “So we must keep him under our eye.”
“And poor Premi, what is to become of her?”
“Do you not think that the Lord cares for the poor young widow at least as much as we do?” said Robin. “My father has gone to try to procure a Government warrant for Premi to be produced in court. All that we can do, at least so it seems to me now, is for us to pray that he may succeed.”
Very earnest prayer was offered, both in English and in Urdu—in the latter for the sake of Kripá Dé, who could not otherwise have joined in or have understood the petitions offered up.
In the evening, when alone with the convert, Robin tried to impress on Kripá Dé the necessity under which every real Christian lies to speak the truth always, and to fear nothing but sin.
“If you do not hate falsehood,” said the young evangelist, “where is the proof that you love Him who is the Truth as well as the Life?”
“Did I not give proof of my love for Christ,” replied the Kashmiri, “when for His sake I threw away my Brahminical thread?”
Robin was not yet sufficiently versed in Hindu customs to understand the full force of this simple appeal. “Was it then such an overwhelming trial to part with a thread?” he inquired.
Kripá Dé looked as much surprised at the question as a king might be if asked whether it would be a trial to part with his crown. Then the young Brahmin told the strange story of his own early life. He described the mysterious ceremony with which he had been invested with the Brahminical thread, revealing to his listener some of the strange force of that superstition which helps to choke spiritual life among the Hindus.