of a woman--sincere and unafraid. And there was not one without
fear. Jiwan Kawi went out into the jungle that night; and he never came
back. Fear may have taken him."

The man looked away toward the horizon.

"Then she put on her body the one garment of hindu-widowhood, unadorned;
but without marriage. She said, 'I will mourn for the children that have
not been--that are not--that cannot be.' The women heard the voice of
her mourning; and they forgot her too-great beauty, to serve her
too-great pain--when it was late.

"They gave her the little Koob Soonder, to mother. Now it is that the
child, who has no wit and little reason, goes out into the place of
sacrifice to find Fear; and the woman in a widow's garment goes after, to
fetch her back. Then the woman who mourns for unborn children, goes out
into the night-paths--as Jiwan Kawi went--and the little Koob Soonder
follows, to fetch her back.

"So they are going, always going out into the place of sacrifice--where
Fear lives. Some day or some night--Fear will take them."

"What kind of fear?" Cadman asked, with a dry throat.

"Fear is name enough. There is none other."

The man's reply was spoken in conclusive tones. He sat as if oblivious,
for several minutes. Then searching them both earnestly with haggard
eyes, he spoke direct:

"Have you looked on Dhoop Ki Dhil, for whom you come so far? Have you
heard her voice?"

Both the Americans shook their heads.

"Will you look on her in the paths of my understanding? Will you render
yourselves to know her in the currents of my blood?"

"We will," Cadman answered tensely.

The man lifted his face toward the night-sky, becoming perfectly still
before he spoke:

"She is the breath of the early spring-time, when the pulse of the earth
awakes. She is the midnight moon of all summers, in all lands. The rose
of daybreak is in her smile; the flames of sunset in her face.
Lightnings of the monsoon break from her eyes; and she mothers the
mothers of men with their tenderness. Her body moves like flowing water;
and she is the joy of all joy and the sorrow of all sorrow, in motion."

The man lifted his hand, as if to interrupt himself.

"The majesties of High Himalaya are in her voice; and distances of
star-lit night."

He stopped, seeming to listen to something they could not hear.

"The tides of the seasons flow through the blood of common men," he went
on; "they carry the gold of delight away;