Hopelessly grey, and hopelessly cold--so cold. So curiously quiet, too; for the great roar of voices seemed to have severed itself from things earthly, and was like a mighty wind from heaven.
"Have patience, brethren! Have patience! There is time!"
A harder saying still, when in the greyness, the coldness, a flock of scared pigeons overhead sent a weird flight of faint grey shadows down that long length of angled curve, packed by expectant humanity.
Was He coming indeed?--that new ruler? Were these the heralds?
There was quite a little row, now, of rescued old dodderers on Mai Kâli's plinth, whence the blood had dropped forty years ago.
What was that? Had some one withdrawn a veil? Had some one said, "Let there be light"?
The greyness, the coldness, lost their character in an instant. There was promise in them now--promise of light to come! The sun was reasserting its sway, and--not half of humanity had bathed!
"Have patience, brethren! Have patience!" shouted Broon-sahib, and there was a certain fierce determination in his tone.
Hardest saying of all, when the precious moments were going--going so fast!
"Huzoor!" came a piteous, confused voice behind him from the plinth, "it is my last chance. I am old--I forget. I have forgotten so much--only this remains. For pity's sake--for the sake of forty years ago--let old Bishen, the flower-seller, find salvation!"