It was a square building recessed and buttressed to a hexagon. The Chaplain, however, preferred to call it a St. Andrew's cross, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps again Deen Mahomed and his cult had really had as little to say to its form as the Chaplain; such responsibility being reserved to the primeval sraddha, or four-pointed death-offering. Be that as it may, there was a coolness between the new parson and his watchman, owing to the former declaring it to be a scandal that the latter should hold such office in a Christian place of worship, when he was not even an inquirer! Certainly he was not. He neither inquired of others nor tolerated inquiry from them. He slept on the plinth of nights, chimed the gong by day, and kept the rest of his life to himself. That was all.
Not one of the congregation filing into the church that morning knew more of him than this. So he stood indifferently waiting for the first note of the harmonium to tell him his task was over; listening for it to pulsate out into the sunshine, and, blending with the last note of the gong, go forth upon the endless waves of ether. Go forth hand-in-hand, plaintiff and defendant; a quaint couple seeking extinction, or perhaps the Great White Throne against which the ripple of life beats in vain.
The note came this morning as on other mornings, and Deen Mahomed turned, indifferent as ever, to his house. It was a mud and thatch hovel clinging to one side of a miniature tomb, half in ruins, which some follower of the saint had built within the shadow of his master's grave. It stood just opposite the flight of steps up which a late worshipper or two was hurrying, glad, even at that early hour, to escape from the glare of sunlight. Yet on the warm dust before the hovel a child of four or five sat contentedly making a garden, while the coachman of a smart barouche and pair drawn up close by looked down with interest on the process. 'Twas God Almighty, says Bacon, who first planted a garden; but ever since the task has had a strange charm for man, and even Deen Mahomed paused with a smile for the little watered plots and pretended paths.
"Thou hast encroached on thy neighbour's land to-day, Rahmut," he said, "and gone into the roadway. Lo! the Sirkar will make thee pay revenue, little robber."
"Trust them for that," put in the coachman quickly; then he chuckled. "But the boy grows; yea! he grows to take his father's place."
The old man frowned, yet laid his hand gently on the child's head, as he said evasively: "Have a care, Rahmut, whilst I am gone, and water thy rose, or 'twill die in this heat."
He pointed to a drooping white rosebud which the little boy had stuck in his centre bed.
"Ay," replied the coachman, "'tis hot indeed for the time of year."
"As hot a Shub'rât as I remember. God send the night be cool and bring peace."
"God send it may," echoed the coachman piously, his evil-looking face showing the worse for his unction. "God send all get their deserts on this the great Night of Record."