here were
two men, a woman, a child, and the priest. They were all marked with the
V-shaped Vishnu mark. The priest twined the sacred Kusa grass round the
fingers of his right hand, and gave each a handful of grass, and they
did as he had done. Then they strewed the grass on the sand, to purify
it from taint of earth, and then they began. The priest chanted names of
God, then stopped, and drew signs on the sand. They followed him
exactly. Then they bathed, bowing to the East between each dip, and
worshipping; then returned and repeated it all. But before repeating it,
they carefully painted the marks on their foreheads, using white and red
pigment, and consulting a small English hand mirror--the one incongruous
bit of West in this East, but symbolical of the times. The child
followed it all, as a child will, in its pretty way. She was a dainty
little thing in a crimson seeley and many gold jewels. The elder woman
was dressed in dark green; the colouring was a joy to the eye, crimson
and green, and the brown of the rock, against the blue of the sea.

It was one of those exquisite mornings we often have in the Tropics,
when everything everywhere shows you God; shines the word out like a
word illumined; sings it out in the Universe Song; and here in this
South niche of Nature's cathedral, under the sky's transparency, these
five, in the only way they knew, acknowledged the Presence of one great
God, and worshipped Him. There was nothing revolting here, no hint of
repulsive idolatry. They worshipped the Unseen. Very stately the
Sanscrit sounded in which they chanted their adoration. "King of
Immensity! King of Eternity! Boundless, Endless, Infinite One!" It might
have been the echo of some ancient Christian hymn. It might have been,
but it was not.

They are not worshipping God the Lord. _They might be, but they are
not._ Whose is the responsibility? Is it partly yours and mine? The
beauty of the scene has passed from us; the blue of the blue sky is
blotted out--

"Only like souls I see the folk thereunder,
Bound who should conquer, slaves who should be kings;
Hearing their one hope with an empty wonder,
Sadly contented with a show of things.

Then with a rush the intolerable craving
Shivers throughout me like a trumpet call:
Oh to save these! To perish for their saving,
Die for their life, be offered for them all!"

The pi