So, confused, obstinate, she stepped behind the image, slid back the panel, and took out the box. Then, producing a cocoanut shell from the folds of her sare, she filled it carefully, methodically, and put back the box carefully, methodically.
This done, she went to the front of the image, smeared the floor once more with blood-red, and began her maiden's prayer--the prayer that is infallible!
"Om! Om! Kâli Ma!--
Dark! Dark! Not a star--
In my Heaven, Kâli Ma!--"
This time her voice was high and hard, for had not Mai Kâli to be compelled--yea! even by the greatest of sacrifices?
"Thou shalt have it fresh and fresh--
Blood to drink, and lumps of flesh--"
Higher and higher grew the voice; it did not falter at all: not even when at the final
"Hoom phut"
the girl, raising her hand on high, dashed the cocoanut she held upon the ground boldly.
There was a faint flash, an instant explosion, a grinding noise as the house rocked to its foundation, then steadied into quiescence.
But Parbutti had kept her promise to Mai Kâli, and to--him; for the Goddess might have satisfied Her craving for Blood, Her desire for Flesh amid the welter of broken stones and twisted grids, of shattered wood-carving and torn Benares khim-kob, of jewels rent apart and splintered bones, that was all remaining of Her shrine, Her image, and Her worshipper.