served on plantain leaves, they drank robustly of _mhowa_ spirit, first
spilling some of this liquor upon the ground in the name of the goddess.

The strong rank native liquor roused an enthusiasm for their
approaching interview of the sacred one. Once Ajeet laid his hand upon
the pitcher that Hunsa was holding to his coarse lips, and pressing it
downward, admonished:

"Hunsa, whilst Bhowanee does not prohibit, it is an offence to approach
her except in devout silence."

The surly one flared up at this; his ungovernable rage drew his hand to
a knife in his belt, and his eyes blazed with the ferocity of a wounded
tiger.

"Ajeet," he snarled, "you are now Chief, but you are not Raja to
command slaves."

With a swift twist of his wrist Ajeet snatched the pitcher from the
hand of Hunsa, saying: "Jamadar, it is the liquor that is in you,
therefore you have had enough."

But Hunsa sprang to his feet and his knife gleamed like the spitting of
fire in the slanting rays of the setting sun, as he drove viciously at
the heart of his Chief. There was a crash as the blade struck and
pierced the matka which Ajeet still held by its long neck.

There was a scream of terror from the throats of the women; a cry of
horror from the Guru at this sacrilege--the spilling of liquor upon the
earth in anger at the feast of Bhowanee.