Which would be the better man--the better weapon?
But Pidar Narâyan did not attack. He only stood, the pyx in one hand, the sword in the other--alternatives as it were--and called in a loud voice--
"Let me pass, jogi Gorakh-nâth!
"Let me pass I say!
"For I carry my GOD!"
Over the whole courtyard, waking now from shadow to light under the coming day, the claim echoed sharply; and the arrogance of it, the strength, the certainty of it, sank deep into the souls of those who heard it.
There was not a sound, not a movement; only a vast, breathless expectancy, and Pidar Narâyan's fine old face set like the nether mill-stone. Everything that had ever been in him--love, passion, faith, worldly wisdom, sympathy--the grit of the whole man--rose up and claimed the crowd.
"Let me pass!" he cried again, in absolute command, and this time the rapier, twisting like a snake, caught the chaplet of skulls in its upward swirl, a dexterous unexpected turn of the old fencer's wrist followed, sending it flying from the jogi's hand.
The next instant (the rope on which they were strung severed by the strain, by the rapier's edge), the skulls were clattering, bounding like balls, like useless toys, on the stone platform.
"A-ha! A-ha!" came from the crowd; but the sigh was but half content, and men looked at each other wonderingly. Since, no matter which priest was the better man, these were Mai Kali's drinking-cups.