'Choose quick, Krishn!'
Choose! How could he choose, when behind those shrinking figures which meant so much to him, he could see that which, in a way, meant more. For, hidden in the arched shadows of the temple, wafted to him in the perfume of incense and fading flowers--yes! symbolised even in the red-armed idol--was the great Mystery of Right and Wrong, Higher and Lower, which had haunted him all his life. It was years since he had stood so close to these eastern expressions of a world-wide thought, and the old awe came back to him at the sight.
Choose! How could he choose between old and new--even between Viva and Naraini; were they not the same? were they not both----
'Now then, guv'nor! wot 'ave you lost this time?' came a cheerful voice, and with it the sound of shod feet running down the steps. 'You jes' put a name to wot you want done, an' I'm blamed if the best A1 copper-bottomed as ever was 'all-marked----'
Jân-Ali-shân paused, for Chris, with another cry--a cry that had a ring of appeal in it like a lost child's--had caught at the newcomer's hand desperately, while he pointed with his other to the gap.
'The bridge!' he cried in frantic haste. 'Look! the gang, the Kuzais have got at it; there is a train signalled; a train----'
He was going on, but that was enough for Jân-Ali-shân. More than enough! He had wrenched his hand away, turned to look for some weapon, and found one. Found it in the soda-water bottle closely netted round with twine, prolonged into a cord handle, which pilgrims carry so often, and which hung on the wrist of one close by him.
The next instant it was whirling--a veritable death-dealer--round his head, as he dashed forward among the little knot of people outside the temple, and the whole strength of his splendid voice rose echoing over the steps in a triumphant chant--
'I was not born as thousands are.'
There was a free path so far--