(angels). But it is also written that whosoever turns back in terror,
each step that he takes shall be equivalent to the guilt of killing a
Brahmin."

The priest's voice had risen in sonorous cadence until it was
compelling.

Bootea trembled like a wind-wavered leaf.

To Barlow it was horrible, the mad infatuation of a man prostrate
before false gods, idols, a rabid materialism. That one, to fall
crushed and bleeding from the dizzy height of the ledge of sacrifice
upon a red-daubed stone representation of the repulsive emblem, could
thus wipe out the deadly sin of murder, was, even spiritually,
impossible.

The priest, his soul submerged by the sophistry of his faith, passed
from the gloomed cloister to the open sunlight.

And Barlow, conscious of his helplessness unless Bootea would now yield
to his entreaties and forswear the horrible sacrifice, turned to the
girl, his face drawn and haggard, and his voice, when he spoke,
vibrating tremulously from the pressure of his despair. He held out
his arms, and Bootea threw herself against his breast and sobbed.

"Come back to Chunda with me, Gulab," Barlow pleaded.

"No, Sahib," she panted, "it cannot be."

"But I love you, Bootea," he whispered.