It was dark by the time he reached the council-tree. As he approached he had heard a murmur of voices, which were hushed as his shadow loomed up over the circle of squatting figures. In the brightening starlight, he recognized Lalloo in the place of honour at the foot of the battered idol. Other forms he recognized, and for the first time he became aware that he had seen only old men since his return.
The circle greeted him gravely. He sat down at Lalloo's side and filled his pipe. He talked of the drought and of the coming famine and asked after those he knew. The glowing bowl of his pipe threw a dull reflection on his face, and he felt that their eyes were fixed on him. They answered his questions with a measured slowness as though each word had to be chosen and weighed, and when his questions ceased they too became silent. One after another a shadow rose from the circle and glided out into the darkness.
Presently only Lalloo remained.
Tristram got up.
"Tell me," he said, "what is happening here?"
Lalloo lifted himself slowly and stood deferentially bowed, his hand caressing his beard.
"Nothing, Sahib."
Tristram smoked placidly.
"That is a lie, Lalloo. Once you were my friend."
"It is long since the Dakktar Sahib lived amongst us."