"I hate peepul trees," said Miss Abigail, with an odd little shudder; "the leaves never seem to be still, even when there is hardly a breath of wind to stir them. Look at them, hark at them now!"
The flat spade-shaped leaves trembled in the sultry evening heat; the faint, continuous rustle sounded like whispering voices. No wonder Philip reflected that spirits were believed by the people to dwell in the branches. Miss Abigail glanced disgustedly at the rough, time-worn stones scattered about its roots; some bore traces of carving, unmistakable figures of idols, others showed sacred symbols, defaced, indistinct, all remnants of a former shrine or temple. Bits of rag had been hung by some passing worshipper to the lower twigs of the tree; it looked, as Miss Baker remarked, as though someone had flown through the branches, leaving scraps of their clothing behind them.
"The rags are hung there as a protection against evil spirits," said Flint; "all the superstitions connected with the peepul tree would fill a good-sized volume. Look at that bit of thread wound round the trunk; somebody has lately been propitiating the tree by walking round it and winding the thread as they went. The peepul is the home of the Hindu Trinity, as well as of mischievous devils!"
"There's a nasty atmosphere of idolatry that doesn't suit me at all," proclaimed Miss Abigail. "It's high time a Christian was buried here to counteract all the wickedness this horrid old tree must have witnessed in its time!" She smiled at her own little pleasantry.
Philip laughed. "And then the grave would become a sort of shrine in its turn, and the people would make offerings to it, and hang more rags than ever in the branches above it!"
Miss Baker turned to Miss Abigail. "But you wouldn't like to be buried here, would you?" she inquired, aghast.
"I don't care where I am buried when my time comes, but here for choice if I thought it would do any good." Miss Abigail dived into a capacious pocket, pulled out a pair of folding scissors, and calmly proceeded to cut the thread that encircled the tree trunk. "There! That's my protest against the devil and all his bad works."
To the embarrassment of her companions she then knelt down on the roots and in a loud voice said a vigorous prayer. What a curious contrast she presented to her surroundings—an almost grotesque figure in an attitude of supplication with her dust-coloured gown flowing about her, and an unlovely sun hat on the back of her head. Jacob sniffed at the soles of her boots that protruded from beneath her skirts. The prayer finished, she rose without a trace of self-consciousness, brushed the dust from her knees, and requested Miss Baker to make haste over the photography as her help would soon be needed in the camp with the evening work. Then she stumped off towards the tents.
"Did you ever!" exclaimed Miss Baker, looking after the retreating figure. "Now I suppose something awful will happen to us all. I feel quite nervous. Hark at the leaves. There really might be something moving about in the branches!"