Coomara, the orthodox, the punctilious observer of caste rule and ceremony, was dead. He had died in sin before the cleansing rites could be performed which alone could restore the purity of his birth and reinstate him in his caste.

Bopaul, when he had recovered from the stunned condition into which the accident threw him, fell back upon the deadening doctrine of fatalism. It was destiny, and there was no escape. All-powerful fate had ordained it; first, that they should miss the earlier train which reached its journey's end in safety; secondly, that Coomara should make a move to the opposite side of the carriage and seat himself on the very spot to which the buffer penetrated. The rest of the occupants escaped with bruises and a few cuts from broken glass. What else could have brought about the occurrence but the direct will of the gods?

To Ananda the affair was a great shock. His nervous system was completely upset. The memory of the scene recurred again and again during the day and the night, depriving him of sleep and rest. It was not only the loss of his friend and companion in exile that grieved him, but the appalling thought that the dead man had been thrust into a cycle of rebirths and existences wherein pain, sordidness and unspeakable degradation would be his lot; where beauty, joy and comfort would find no part. At that very moment the troubled spirit might be entering upon its new life with groans and sighs in squalid environment. He recalled Coomara's careful observance of everything that related to his religion; his dislike of all that was not strictly orthodox; his unwillingness even to listen to heretical teaching. No man could be more innocent of intention in transgressing caste rule than Coomara. With his sensitive temperament, his pride of birth and caste, none could feel his punishment in a greater degree. Day and night Ananda brooded and sorrowed, uncomforted by the oft-repeated assurance of Bopaul that it was the inevitable decree of fate; and that what was written on a man's forehead by the gods could not be averted.

The Professor observed his distress and was troubled. It affected the health of his guest, causing his appetite to fail. Sleep came fitfully; and rest during the day seemed well-nigh impossible, as Ananda paced the room or wandered up and down the garden without purpose. Everything in the shape of study ended. The books were opened and the Professor began to lecture; but he soon discovered that he failed to interest Bopaul, and that Ananda's thoughts had wandered far from the subject in hand. Under the impression that the mind might be relieved by speech, he encouraged both to talk of the trouble that had overtaken them. He listened seriously and with patience as Ananda propounded the doctrine of transmigration. At the conclusion the Professor combatted it, repeating all the arguments against the theory.

"It is monstrous to ascribe such cruelty to the Deity," he said. "You admit that God is all-powerful. Why cannot you give Him credit for beneficence? You call Him the All-Father. If He is a father, at least allow Him the attributes of a father."

"How can He break His own rules?" cried Bopaul. "It is laid down by Divine authority in the Vedas that certain consequences must follow certain deeds. It is a common law of life all over the world. You hang your murderer, regardless of his repentance. Can you cleanse the hand of the murderer from the blood in which he has dipped it? You yourself admit that as the tree falls so must it lie; the tree falls not by its will nor by its merit, but by fate."

"Christ came into the world to give us a new law," said the Professor. "It is true that by the old Mosaic teaching we punish the murderer. If he dies repentant, we have the promise of Christ made on the Cross that his sins will assuredly be forgiven. To the crucified thief He said, 'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.' He gave the promise almost with his last breath, and the man to whom it was made had sinned wilfully and with design. Is it likely that they who have transgressed unintentionally will have to suffer with those whose hearts are hardened?"

"The thief on the Cross was a Christian already, probably, and a follower of your Prophet," said Bopaul.

"There is nothing to show that he had followed Christ, or been influenced by His teaching. All that he knew was that his strange companion was branded with no crime. If Christ could promise forgiveness-which meant immunity from punishment-to a wilful criminal who was neither baptized nor a follower, is it not believable that He could forgive and secure immunity from punishment to one like Coomara, whose life was humanly blameless? Our God is all-powerful, all-embracing, just and loving. Through His Son He shows mercy to all, regardless of race and religion."

"Is He-is He-stronger than Brahma?" asked Ananda, in a low voice.

"He is stronger and mightier than all the gods in the Universe," declared the Professor, in ringing tones that almost carried conviction. Even Bopaul, the trifler, was impressed. He rose from his seat and strolled to the window.

"Our guru would warn us that it was sinful to listen to the claims of any other God but our own."

As he spoke he turned and looked at Ananda with warning in his eye.

"He who refuses to listen is a coward," said Twyford. "In these days of tolerance and freedom of thought, the student asks for liberty to probe and sound every doctrine that is presented. He demands a wide field that he may view from all sides, weigh and measure the new with the old. Above all, he requires to be told all that there is to be learned; for, without hearing the arguments for and against, no man is able to form a just opinion."

"In that case the guru ought to be here to represent and defend his side of the argument," said Bopaul.

"You have already learned all that he could teach you. Your people sent you to England that you might hear more; that you might be made acquainted with every question that is agitating the western world of science, of politics and of religion."

"Ah, well!" replied Bopaul, in a lighter and more careless tone. "We are acquiring knowledge under you, sir; we can sift and compare without apostacy, I hope. Come for a walk, Ananda. The fresh air will clear away the cobwebs from our brains and make us more profitable pupils."

The Professor's grey eyes, full of sympathy and friendliness, rested on Ananda in silence. He did not say, "Go; the walk will do you good." Nor did he reach out his hand for pen or book, a sign that he was ready to return to his own studies. He waited, leaning back in the revolving chair in front of his writing-table.

"No, thanks; I would rather stay in-doors. The noise and traffic of the streets--"

"You will never conquer your nerves by keeping away from the outside world. It will have to be faced sooner or later; the sooner the better," said Bopaul, as his hand touched the door.

Ananda turned from the speaker to the silent Professor, and gathered strength from his steady gaze.

"Don't wait, Bopaul; I am not going out this morning."

With a lifting of the shoulders the other left the room, shifting responsibility on to the Englishman. Silence was maintained for some seconds after his departure. Ananda broke it.

"If only I could believe that this endless cycle of rebirths need not be, I should be happier," he said.

The pathetic appeal for some ray of hope went straight to Twyford's heart. Pity and an intense desire to help in spiritual trouble roused the man, and he poured forth the doctrines of comfort that console the dying Christian. It was not done with the intention of converting, but in the merciful desire of bringing some small consolation to the despairing man to whom the fear of the future made life in the present intolerable. The fate that had overtaken Coomara might at any moment, whether at home or abroad, be Ananda's.

For more than an hour they talked, and the gloom on Ananda's face lightened.

"It is most comforting as you put it, but-it is not my creed," he said. There was a pause, and he added, "I cannot change my faith."

"I do not ask you to change it. Is it not possible, however, in these days of advanced thought that you may be able to modify some of the fossilised tenets of your religion? The spirit of reform is abroad, and a Hindu may become a member of the Brahmo-Somaj or the Ayra-Somaj without losing caste, without cutting himself adrift from his community, his family. There is no hurry. The fathers may rest content to think of these things. Their sons will act."

There was a sound of a footstep outside. The door opened, and Bopaul appeared.

"Lunch is ready, sir. I am sure you must be tired talking so long. You should have driven that foolish Ananda out into the air and sunshine, instead of letting him waste your time."

"I don't think that the time has been wasted," replied the Professor, kindly.

Bopaul shot a swift glance at Ananda, but learned nothing except the fact that the latter was ill at ease under his scrutiny. The lunch bell rang, and Ananda hurried to his room. As he disappeared Bopaul said in a tone that was unusually earnest for him.

"Sir, remember your promise to his parents. Forgive me for reminding you of it. I know his people, and what a terrible thing it will be for them if his faith is shaken. He is their only son."

"Believe me, I have not broken faith with them. I have been preaching reform rather than conversion, although I admit that it would please me better if it had been the other way about. Ananda must have led a very sheltered life in his youth, and this I fancy is his first great trouble. He needs help, and it is difficult to give it under the peculiar circumstances in which I find myself."

*****

The Professor was not far wrong when he said that Ananda's childhood had been sheltered.

Born of wealthy parents and the only son, surrounded with every luxury that love could devise, he had been guarded from trouble of all kind. He, on his part, had been amenable to his parents' wishes, obedient and gentle, always ready to be guided. Content to be ruled, his will power lay dormant, and there seemed little likelihood of it being roused into activity; for the desires of those whose authority he recognised never clashed with his own. The life of his father, Pantulu Iyer, had been smooth, as is the case with many men of high caste families. The life of the son promised to be the same.

At the age of twelve he was married to Coomara's sister, three years his junior. When he was seventeen the marriage was consummated, and the girl took up her residence with his parents. It was a happy home, free from strife, and the daughter-in-law found no difficulty in fitting herself into her place. She shared the love that the parents in the fullness of their affection showered upon their son.

When Ananda was nineteen and Dorama, his wife, sixteen, she presented him with a son. If anything could have been added to the cup of joy that was already full, it was this.

"Now we are assured of the completion of our happiness and the fulfilment of our desire," said his father. "We may allow ourselves to consider your future. One day we hope to see you take a prominent part in the government of the country. Possibly you may rise to occupy a place on the Maharajah's council. These honours cannot be attained without a journey to England."

"Is it necessary, my father?" asked Ananda, watching his young wife as she sat on the fine grass matting with the baby on her lap. He would have been more than content to continue in the pleasant backwater of domestic life without seeking new scenes.

"It is necessary in these days of progress. His Highness himself takes occasional voyages across the ocean to see the western world with his own eyes."

"His caste is not our caste," objected Ananda, with the unconscious superiority of a man of better birth.

"Still, his example is to be imitated."

"Not without loss of caste."

"Caste can be restored on your return. The penances and penalties are lighter than they used to be."

"But the breaking of caste is none the less serious for the lightening of the penalties."

"That may be," assented Pantulu. "All the same, it is imperative in these days that men should see something of the world outside their own State; and there is no doubt that those who have travelled in Europe, and lived for a time in England, are preferred in the council to those who have had no experience. Having thought the matter well over, my son, your mother and I have decided on this step. You will sail from Bombay in April next; and it is proposed by their families to send Coomara and Bopaul with you."

Ananda's father consulted with Wenaston, who had recently been appointed as Principal of the large college at Chirapore, as to the best place of residence in London; with the result that the three Hindus found themselves committed to the care of Professor Twyford.

Bopaul had no qualms over his broken caste. He accepted the decree of exile with pleasure, and determined to make the most of his opportunities. He intended to amuse himself as well as read with the Professor; and he carried out his programme, the only shadow to cross his path later being the death of Coomara.

Shortly before they left for England, the guru paid them a visit. The Vedas were quoted and the laws of Manu repeated with many warnings against falling away from the faith.

"You are going to a foreign land, the home of revolutionary teaching. Be careful how you listen, and let no one undermine the instructions that I with divine authority have given you. Attempts will be made; you must resist them. Here in this State of Chirakul we still enjoy the great boon of an hereditary ruler. Under his government we have successfully repelled the innovations that have been introduced into British India. If fate should decree that any of you enter the service of our Maharajah, it will rest with you to help to preserve our ancient faith."

Coomara looked up at the tall figure that stood before him, and his glance fell beneath the fiery eyes. He dropped at the feet of the teacher and pressed his forehead to the ground with words of worship and adoration such as might have been addressed to the Deity. In his eyes the guru was God Himself, neither His messenger nor prophet; and as such he bowed himself in deep humility and worshipped. As he lay there a voice like the voice of a god reached him.

"My son, I do not forbid your ears to listen nor your eyes to see. What you hear and see will be of use in the work you will have to do on your return. A knowledge of the enemy is necessary to success."

"What work, oh swami? May thy servant know?"

"The preservation of our great religion, the emancipation of our country, the elevation of our nation; the casting out of a race of demons who would have us believe that they are spirits of light. May they be accursed with their Christ!"

He broke into imprecations against the supreme power that claimed sovereignty over the Maharajah of Chirakul and against the Founder of the Christian faith.

"Swami, is it your decree that I should take this voyage across the black water-that I should break my caste?"

"Only by going to England can you ever hope to rise to a position wherein you may help the cause that we have at heart."

"And if I die in that foreign land, swami?"

"You will be born again to suffering and degradation," said the inexorable voice.

"Swami, swami! Let me stay in my father's house."

"It cannot be. It is the will of the gods!" replied the guru. "My son," he added, in softer accents, "be not afraid. You will return in safety to help the cause we have at heart and be blessed by the holy Brahmans."

Ananda and Bopaul heard the words and remembered them afterwards. "You will be born again to toil and suffering and degradation."

And they believed them; for had they not been spoken by the guru, in whom dwelt the divine afflatus?

*****

Dr. Wenaston shortened his stay in town after the accident, and cancelled his social engagements. The death of Coomara affected him, though in a lesser degree. He developed an aversion to public gatherings and to the assemblage of a crowd in street or train or on the field of sport. A vague feeling of apprehension destroyed his pleasure, and he recognised with dismay that he, too, was suffering from nerves.

There was only one remedy, and that was to seek comparative solitude for a while until the nervous system should recover its equilibrium.

His sister suggested a leisurely motor trip into the depths of the country. They could choose their road and regulate their pace to please themselves.

They wandered through the south and west of England, fortunate in their weather and choice of route. When it suited them they remained at a quiet little seaside place for a week or two; or in a still more sleepy country town, with the happy result that Wenaston entirely recovered his health mentally and bodily.

The summer passed and he sent his sister home to make her preparation for the voyage to India, while he went to his club for the same object. He had not seen the Professor since he led Ananda and Bopaul back to his house in dazed and prostrate condition on that memorable afternoon, and had told the story of the accident.

On his arrival in town he wrote to Mrs. Twyford, saying that he would come to lunch on the following Sunday.

It was one of those bright autumn days, when the sun touched every object with a golden light. Even the city of smoke and fog was rendered beautiful in its dress of grey and gold. The streets, thronged on week-day with traffic, were empty except during the half-hour before service. Church-bells rang out their call in all directions, summoning their eclectic congregations to the morning services. The sound of the great cathedral chimes dominated them all.

Wenaston stood for a minute or two on the steps of St. Paul's listening, that he might retain the echo in his ears and carry it away into exile. Temple-bells might clang around him, and the ding-ding-ding of the Christian Church bell call him on Sunday; but nowhere throughout the East would a melody like that sent forth from the dome of St. Paul's ever ring in his ear.

He entered the cathedral and moved swiftly up the centre aisle. The space under the dome was filling fast. He turned to the right and found a seat near the pulpit.

The chimes ceased, and the big bell monotoned the final invitation to the increasing crowd. Before it stopped the organ pealed forth the first chords of the voluntary.

If the truth is to be recorded, Wenaston had not gone to church with any conscious desire to humble himself in prayer, nor to lift his soul to God in praise. The melody of the choir succeeded the song of the bells. He listened passively, revelling in the perfect harmony and abandoning himself to the soothing, almost sensuous feeling of peace and contentment brought by the music and environment. He knelt and stood, following mechanically the example of his neighbours; and when the organ ceased and the preacher entered the pulpit, he rested motionless in his chair, yielding himself to the luxury of the sensations that had been roused by the music.

At the conclusion of the sermon, eager for more of that which so soon would be unattainable, he determined to remain to the end of the service. A large number of people left the cathedral, and he moved up nearer to the choir, with the object of securing a better seat, but with no intention of communicating.

When the departing congregation had cleared away, his eyes were drawn towards a kneeling figure in front. Something in its outline was familiar. The head, with short abundant black hair, was bowed in silent prayer. The worshipper was no idle visitor; nor had he come to have his ears tickled or his senses steeped in superb harmonies. The music that echoed through arch and aisle was unheeded in the effort to raise the spirit to God. The man was there to pray, and his prayerful attitude was unchanged until the first chords of the Gloria were struck. As prayer passed into a glorious song of praise, the worshipper lifted his head and Wenaston caught a glimpse of the features. Astounded beyond measure-he could not have explained why-he recognised Ananda.

When the service ended he rose, and allowing the Hindu to pass out before him, caught him up at the west door. Ananda's eyes were not upon the crowd that jostled him, and he did not observe Wenaston's presence. In their dark depths shone the light of a great happiness mingled with that exaltation which may be seen in the eyes of the convert. Wenaston's surprise was not lessened as he noted it.

"You! Ananda!"

The Hindu turned at once and held out his hand.

"Dr. Wenaston! We thought that you were still in the south of England!"

"I have been there; but my leave is getting short, and I have come to town to prepare for my journey back to India. Mrs. Twyford did not tell you that I am to lunch with you all to-day?"

"She said nothing about it."

Wenaston gazed at him with searching eyes.

"How is it that I find you in St. Paul's?" he asked, adding as an after-thought. "And not as a spectator."

"Because I have taken a momentous step. I have become a Christian."

"Is this the Professor's doing?" asked Wenaston, after a slight pause.

"No," replied Ananda, readily. "The Professor had nothing to do with my act."

"Tell me about it."

They walked along the deserted city streets where a few well-dressed folk were strolling and an occasional omnibus rolled noisily by.

"After Coomara's death I was very much troubled. I could not bear to think of his fate. Sometimes I was overwhelmed with grief on his account; sometimes I was beside myself with terror on my own, lest a like fate should overtake me. It became more than I could bear. The Professor was very kind. He tried to console me with some of his own doctrines, and suggested that I should draw comfort from them without necessarily adopting Christianity. As you know, it was one of the conditions imposed by my father on the Professor that there should be no attempt on his part at proselytising. Being an honourable man, he kept faith with my father."

"How did it come about, then?"

"A curious thing happened. One of the English students living in the house introduced me to the mother and sister of the aviator who was killed that day. In my grief and trouble over Coomara's fate I had almost forgotten the accident. I spoke to them about it, and told them of my own sorrow. They were goodness itself. To my astonishment I saw that they were bearing their grief with a resignation that put me to shame. It was their belief-their unshaken faith in the future that gave them strength. They were so sure, so certain that their beloved one was safe with God and happier than he could ever be on earth. I marvelled at their peace of mind, and asked myself why I should not share it. Sorrow had made them very tender towards the trouble of others. In short, it was through them that I changed my religion. They introduced me to their vicar. Unknown to the Professor, I put myself under instruction, and three weeks ago I was baptized."

"Without consulting your guardian?"

"Without his knowledge. He knows now. I did not wish to compromise him, and I begged my friends to keep my secret until I was baptized. I am of age, and can please myself."

He looked up at Wenaston, as if to hear what he had to say, and whether he approved.

"You ought to have told Twyford."

Ananda's hands were lifted in a little gesture of deprecation.

"I was afraid, afraid of losing my new-found happiness. I was afraid of opposition from Bopaul if he knew. I was afraid lest the Professor should want me to write first to my father and obtain his consent. I was afraid--"

He paused, and Wenaston remarked with a gravity in which there was concern and doubt-

"You may in truth say that you have taken a momentous step. God give you strength to be no longer afraid."