"Ay! none but fools; and he--" (a nod towards that thing in the centre which was now dying down to red embers pointed his meaning) "is the first; not the last. I, Gopi, gosain,[[6]] say so. Let fools wait and see. Wise men will not."
There was a clank of leg irons as if some stirred uneasily. "Thou canst talk," murmured a voice. "When thy 'tucket' (ticket of leave)--God knows how got!--is so nigh."
Gopi smiled comfortably. "Ay! To-morrow, and the next day, and the next. Then, once more, purification in the Pool of Immortality. Once more, sanctification at the 'Cradle of the Gods.'" He cast his eyes upwards unctuously, like an Eastern Chadband, so rehearsing the part of piety he meant to play once more on his release.
Am-ma nodded his bodiless head cheerfully. "There will be no Pool of Immortality for the pilgrims this year. So Gorakh-nâth says. The canal will drain the spring. But then, he is angry at being turned out of his gun. The people will not give so much--that is it!"
The gosain's face lowered at the news. "Turned out? Who hath done it?"
Am-ma's eyes were closed, for his feet had found likely ground; he paused a second, tensely alert--
"He who comes," he said, suddenly; "the Master."
As he spoke, the quick thud, followed by a lingering reverberation of the first saluting gun, told that the Viceroy of India was entering his camp.
"The Lord hath come!" said the circle of prisoners, in awed tones.
All save Gopi, the gosain. He sneered. "The Lord-sahib. Ay! he may be that--but the Master--no!"