"And mine!"
"And mine!" assented some, while others forgot all save pilgrimage in the shout--
"Râm, Râm, Sita Râm!"
"Hârâ! Hârî! Hârî! Hârâ!"
So, on that babel of sounds, Pidar Narâyan's voice rose steadily as, preceded by that ambling figure--strangest of all acolytes--he walked on, chanting the 121st Psalm:--
"Levavi oculos meos in montes; unde veniet auxilium mihi."
The words were in an unknown tongue, the rhythm strange, but the spirit, the idea, were familiar. It was the song of someone seeking the "Cradle of the Gods," as they were.
"He carries his God, and that means all," said an old man, pushing his way to follow. "The other had none: how could he lead the way?"
"That is true," assented many, following suit.
And some, shrugging their shoulders, said, "He is mad. God has touched his brain. Then he goes the way our fathers went. They lingered not beyond the second dawn. Why should we?"