right hand, held the torch away with his left, and stepped out
of the shrine into the desperate night. There was no breath of
wind, but the rain nearly drowned the flare as the great deer
hurried down the slope, sliding on his haunches. As soon as they
were clear of the forest more of the Bhagat's brothers joined
them. He heard, though he could not see, the langurs pressing
about him, and behind them the uhh! uhh! of Sona. The rain
matted his long white hair into ropes; the water splashed
beneath his bare feet, and his yellow robe clung to his frail
old body, but he stepped down steadily, leaning against the
barasingh. He was no longer a holy man, but Sir Purun Dass,
K.C.I.E., Prime Minister of no small State, a man accustomed
to command, going out to save life. Down the steep, plashy path
they poured all together, the Bhagat and his brothers, down and
down till the deer's feet clicked and stumbled on the wall of a
threshing-floor, and he snorted because he smelt Man. Now they
were at the head of the one crooked village street, and the
Bhagat beat with his crutch on the barred windows of the
blacksmith's house, as his torch blazed up in the shelter of
the eaves. "Up and out!" cried Purun Bhagat; and he did not
know his own voice, for it was years since he had spoken aloud
to a man. "The hill falls! The hill is falling! Up and out, oh,
you within!"

"It is our Bhagat," said the blacksmith's wife. He stands among
his beasts. Gather the little ones and give the call."

It ran from house to house, while the beasts, cramped in the
narrow way, surged and huddled round the Bhagat, and Sona
puffed impatiently.