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time to think. And no one fills their mouths with gunpowder and explodes it if they make a protest about something. Life has changed under your benevolent government. Much is for the better. But the people want this changed and that left alone. In this matter of suttee they are ready for violence here.’
    Are you afraid of a riot, patel-ji?’ said George with a small sneer. ‘What about all your power and influence mentioned in the scroll? Look here, William, my horse is saddled, I’ve got to go. What shall I tell the Old Man?’
    The little naked girl ran off to recount her bravery to her friends. Mary came back and stood to one side, watching the three men, her face expressionless and strong.
    George was on his feet. William rose slowly. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. George waited, and behind George, Mr Wilson; on the other side, Chandra Sen, all the people who wanted to live their own lives and die their own deaths; the young wife of Gopal the weaver. He stood in unhappy indecision. He said, ‘Tell Mr Wilson -- tell Mr Wilson . . .’ Chandra Sen wanted to help but could not; Mary could help but did not want to. He got out some words at last. ‘Tell Mr Wilson I’ll see to it.’
    George hesitated briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right. I’ll tell him that. You’ll report in due course, won’t you?’ He turned to Mary with a smile. ‘Your father takes a keen interest in these things.’ Then he was on his horse, and in a minute the clop of hoofs faded away down the street.
    When he had gone, and the dust had settled, the three in the courtyard were still standing where they had been. William felt a little sick; Kali, the Destroyer Goddess of the Hindus, was close, pressing down on him, and he did not know whether Kali was lovely or detestable or both, and Mary had deserted him. It was no problem of hers; but she knew, and had known from the time of their first glances, that he needed her. He turned away to go up into the house and be alone. He would have to make his decision by himself, as in the past, before Mary with the bright eyes stood so firm and strong against his uncertainties.
    Her voice was soft in his ear. ‘You know what you want to do, William, don’t you, really? You don’t need me. You couldn’t make a mistake if you trusted yourself. But I’m always here.’
    It was her voice, gentle-toned, hard-based, of the days when they were discovering each other. Her face had softened and was quite unlike the combative provocation of her attitude while George had been here. A thin gold chain hung round her neck; the little oak cross on it was hidden in her bosom.
    He said humbly, ‘I’m not sure, darling, really I’m not.’
    ‘Don’t let her die, William.’
    Yes, he could take the thought and the decision from there. Now that the words had been spoken he knew he could follow no other course. But how -- without letting other people die, perhaps, inflamed to riot by their anger? He did not know just how strained things were, down there in Kahari. In George’s presence Chandra Sen had been uncommunicative.
    William said, ‘Patel-ji, how do the people feel about this case?’
    Chandra Sen’s long thin fingers twisted about as he groped for the words to translate the unquiet of his people. ‘It is a -- a test. Without the physical presence of the dead man’s corpse they-- we ’ -- he lifted his large eyes, not apologetically -- ‘we cannot feel that our religion is being deliberately insulted. But this rests on the woman alone, as we feel it always does and always should. She might not have dreamed her dream. There is no earthly power that could make her tell of it if she did not want to. So it is she, by herself, who cries out from her spirit to join her husband. There is no law written anywhere that she should not be allowed to. The people are determined that she shall do as her spirit wishes.’
    While George had been here, his very presence, so clearly dedicated to