“There seems no surety of that, but it is possible.”
The deep voice of the hathayogin went on: “The crystals foretell, but the wisdom and daring of man forestall. Had you not come to this tree, there would be no hope. As it is, you may come again to-morrow at this time.”
“I’m afraid not, father. Whatever wall it is, I shall be one day nearer it, to-morrow.”
Few would have noted the faint film of pallor under Dicky Cobden’s tan. As white men go, he knew something about the Indian holy men. The more he learned, the more he respected certain rare types. There is a saying in India that the real mystic never begs. Dicky determined to learn the quality of the man before him, for he arose now to depart without offering a present in money.
“Perhaps, father, from this meeting, I shall be wiser to face the fate that awaits me at the wall.”
“You should be wise enough to take one day from your journey.”
“I cannot take what is not altogether my own,” the American laughed. “I am saying good-by now.”
He walked slowly out of the shade of the trees. With each step, his blood chilled a little, in spite of noon heat. He thought of The Public Square, of Pidge Musser at the desk there, of Harrow Street. Death had to come some time, but life wasn’t boring him just now. The sunlight of the open stretch stung his eyes with great weariness. The deep voice called from behind:
“Stay, my pupil!”
Dicky halted and returned, looking down into the apparently guileless and desireless eye. “Alms for the temple in Cawnpore,” the lips intone.