The sad heart of the holy man was in his eyes as he looked at the priest and his voice was pleading. "If thou dost know, tell me!"
The priest, who had been dulled by his bestiality so that he was not able to comprehend the soul-longings of the man before him, had already become weary of the fakir's earnestness and importunity. Lazily he pulled himself to his feet, after a last long suck at the pipe. "Come and be a priest of Kali," was his only answer as he turned down the lane towards the temple of his goddess, with lustful eyes fixed upon a pretty woman, who, attracted by the unusual animation of the holy man, had been standing near by until the priest arose.
The fakir, worn out by the eagerness with which he had spoken and the unappreciativeness of his listener, turned wearily to his holy book and his prayers. He knew the priesthood of Kali; in his five years at the Kalighat he had heard and seen strange things which as a Hindu he could not condemn, but which he knew would not bring peace to him, even as a priest of Kali, for in his young manhood he had tried them and had not been at rest. "I was, indeed, foolish to have talked to the priest at all," he murmured.
"Pardon me, holy one," a voice interrupted his thoughts, the voice of a young man who had been standing for some time with an open book in his hand, not reading, but listening to the words of the fakir. "I heard thy conversation. Hast thou ever tried the pursuit of wisdom? Study, learn, become the wisest of men and surely thou wilt become the most happy. I am a follower of that way."
The holy man, turning, looked fixedly for some time at the young man. "Son, what means the sad look in your eyes? Are you yourself happy? Tell me truly!"
The young man's intelligent but undeniably sad face was turned full towards the fakir. For a few moments he seemed to hesitate to reply. At last he said, "No, holy man, I have not found peace yet. I have not found happiness yet, but I am only a student. I am seeking. I study and read at all times—but even while I read my heart is not at rest, I must confess." He turned as he finished speaking and with bowed head, unmindful of the noise and confusion of the square about him, went down the lane.
The fakir sighed. "Peace is not found in that way, poor youth! For I have tried it. I was a Hindu scholar of note before I became this," and he gazed at his dirty hands and body with evident loathing.
The old woman, who had waited all this time for her blessing, said timidly, holding out her hand towards him, "Holy man, most holy man! Give me thy blessing, for my son is ill. Tell me how he can be healed, my only son."