His fine
head raised, his eyes flashing, his hand extended, he could have stood
for the statue of some inspired prophet.
"You are a modern Buddha," she said, smiling faintly. Inwardly she was
comparing him to Mr. Berry--Mr. Berry, whose highest ideal in life was
to bring everything down to a nice, shabby, orthodox level.
Nehal Singh's hand dropped to his side and he looked at her earnestly.
"That is what they say," he answered. "My people say that I am the
tenth Avatar. But I am not. I am only a man--scarcely so much. A few
months ago I was no more than a beggar in the Bazaar, an idler and a
dreamer. If I have thrown aside my false dreams and come out as an
untried worker into the light of truth, it is because I have been led
by God--through you."
Every trace of color fled from her face, and the clear eyes which met
his from beneath the broad helmet distended as though at some sudden
shock. In the course of their earnest but impersonal conversation she
had almost forgotten what was to come. This was the end of the ride,
this was the to-morrow, the inevitable to-morrow of those who
procrastinate with the inevitable.
"I--I have done nothing," she said, striving to hush down the rising
tide of suffocating emotion.
"Yes, it is nothing. I know it is nothing, but it may still become
something," he answered. "Or is it not already something? Is it not
something that you have led me to the feet of the Great Teacher? Is it
not something that I am awake and standing on the threshold of a new
Earth and Heaven, as yet blinded by the light, but with every day
gaining courage and strength to go forward? Do not say that this is
nothing--you to whom I owe all that I am and ever shall be!"
She threw back her fair head.
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