"What did you say to him?" she asked.
Nehal Singh shook his head.
"One day I will tell you," he answered; and some instinct made her
hesitate to press the question further.
Thus they stood once more before the great golden statue, this time side
by side. The sanctuary was built in the shape of a half-circle, the high,
vaulted roof supported by slender pillars of carved black marble. There
was no other attempt at ornamentation. The three-headed figure of the god
reigned in the center from a massive altar in solitary splendor, and from
a small opening overhead a frail ray of evening light mingled its pale
yellow with the brilliant crimson flame of the Sacred Lamp which burnt
before the idol, casting an almost unearthly reflection about the
passionless chiseled features. In spite of herself, Beatrice felt that the
place was charmed, and that the charm was drawing into its ban her very
thoughts and emotions. She felt subdued, quieted. It was as she had
said--the ages seemed to hover like ghosts about them, and her hard,
worldly skepticism could make no stand against the hush and mystery of the
past. Here generation after generation, amidst danger, battle and death,
men had bowed down and poured out their hottest, most fervent prayers, and
their sincerity and faith had sanctified the ground for Christian, Brahman
and skeptic alike.
Beatrice looked at the man beside her. She had the feeling that, while she
had stood and wondered, he had been praying; and possibly she was right,
though he returned her glance immediately.
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