They were old men, palsied with the horrors of that night. There was no thought of rebellion left in them. They could only whisper incoherently, like frightened children, looking up into his face as at something at once loved and terrible.
"Dakktar Sahib—Dakktar Sahib!"
He became slowly conscious of them and of their piteousness.
"There's nothing to fear," he said compassionately. "I'm not a spirit—my horse brought me across—just got me into my depth, poor girl—I've been wading about—till morning." He composed himself with a stern effort.
"Row me to my place—will you?"
But they shook their heads.
"Gone, Dakktar Sahib, gone."
His face was grey—stiff-looking.
"Still, row me—to where it was."
They obeyed him. Here and there a wall remained, or a half roof balanced on a few battered, shapeless heaps of mud. A carcase of a sacred bull floated backwards and forwards between two ruins, with a grotesque semblance of life. At the cross-roads the council-tree trailed its leaves sadly in the still water.