There was no
other movement, no other sound save Nicholson's own footsteps, which
echoed loud and threatening in that petrified silence. On the altar
itself a Holy Lamp burned steadily, and behind, half obliterated by a
lonely, upright figure, the great three-headed god stretched out
ghost-like arms into the sunshine that descended in a narrow ladder of
pure light to mingle with the altar fire.
Nicholson moved on. At the altar steps he came to a halt and waited.
The figure did not stir nor seem to be aware of his presence. A
torch-bearer knelt on the lower step, and the fiery deflection threw
into plastic relief the set and pitiless features beneath the jeweled
turban. Gone was the old simplicity. The hands that lay clasped one
upon the other on the splendid scimitar were loaded with gems, and
from the turban a single diamond sparkled starlike in the changing
light. A splendid and romantic figure, truly; harmonizing with and
dominating over the mysterious background. But it was not the
splendor, nor even the stern tragedy written on the worn and haggard
face, which caused Nicholson to feel a cold hand grasp at his bold
self-confidence. It was the sudden intuitive realization that here the
battle began. He was no longer the master personality towering over a
hydra-headed multitude. Here it was a man against a man, will against
will, despair against despair.
"Hail, Rajah Sahib!" he said in Hindustani.
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