“There . . .”
Floating in the darkness was a king, who sat under a canopy, in shining royal robes. . . .
“I can’t tell you what that is, I’m sure,” he whispered. “His Highness is dead. I think we should go back at once.”
They were close to the promontory of the tombs, and had looked straight into the chhatri of the Rajah’s father through an opening in the trees. That was the explanation. He had heard of the image—made to imitate life at enormous expense—but he had never chanced to see it before, though he frequently rowed on the lake. There was only one spot from which it could be seen, and Ralph had directed him to it. Hastily he pulled away, feeling that his companion was not so much a visitor as a guide. He remarked, “Shall we go back now?”
“There is still the procession.”
“I’d rather not go nearer—they have such strange customs, and might hurt you.”
“A little nearer.”
Aziz obeyed. He knew with his heart that this was Mrs. Moore’s son, and indeed until his heart was involved he knew nothing. “Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Krishnaradha,” went the chant, then suddenly changed, and in the interstice he heard, almost certainly, the syllables of salvation that had sounded during his trial at Chandrapore.
“Mr. Moore, don’t tell anyone that the Rajah is dead. It is a secret still, I am supposed not to say. We pretend he is alive until after the festival, to prevent unhappiness. Do you want to go still nearer?”
“Yes.”