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Père Caillard told me that he watched her standing motionless there for half-an-hour, as the boat steamed away towards Geneva. The few words in which he described his leavetaking left such an impression on me that I felt as if I had seen the white town disappear myself, first the old mother on the pier, then the buildings one by one until one house could not be distinguished from another and there was not speck left.

"Will you never go back?' I asked of him.

"No,' he said, 'I have no desire. Besides, we all stay out here.' But there was а catch in his voice which made me afraid that his words might be a formula. We talked of Meillerie till after midnight. I had spent the best part of a summer in an Arcadian spot near by, and I fancied that Père Caillard was glad to meet some one who knew his home. Still, I was half afraid of stirring up regrets. It is possible that he had disciplined himself into putting it all out of his mind.

"I only once heard him speak of Savoy again. It was on a grilling evening in April, and an urchin in charge of some water buffaloes was jumping feet foremost into the village tank at Agni Hôtrodu. The yellow and green scum which he splashed up was clear as crystal in the air with the slant rays of the sun behind it. 'The splash and the spray are the same,' he said. 'It might be the lake.' He had shut his eyes,

and I knew he was thinking of Leman and the icy-cold Rhone water. I knew the little wooden pier from which he used to dive, looking across towards Chillon. A path leads up from it to some scattered chalets. One of them was his father's house. I must have passed it often. I remember the orchards in the appleblossom season, and in June when the sweet-smelling cows used to stand knee-deep in flowers-harebell and gentian and scabious. The grass was merely the embroidery of the fields; it gave just the necessary relief. The flower - fed cattle seemed more fragrant there than anywhere else. The hay certainly was, though the farmers of Evian abused it. As I came down from the pine woods one day an old peasant lady gave me a cup of milk. I have often thought it was Père Caillard's mother. Their chalet was on the left hand as you go down.

"We had to wait two days at Agni Hôtrodu for some baggage we had left behind. It was the end of a brief cold weather, and there were still a few duck and snipe on the jhils. Père Caillard showed us the country. On the second day he carried a gun, and to his great satisfaction shot a paddy bird, a snake, and a whistling teal. The next morning he walked with us as far as our first haltingstage. We parted from him with regret and promises to return if we could by the same route. He shook us warmly by the hand, and

swung off along the dusty cart-road home, Teendu trotting behind.

"There is often something very pathetic in a disappearing back. Père Caillard's was broad enough to bear most ills, and his long, awkward, confident stride might have reassured one. Yet I could not help feeling that there was something perverse in the economy of human destinies which sent him back to his empty little chapel and the Sowarahs, who do not understand, and the sullen antagonism of all created things in his wilderness at Agni Hôtrodu.

"In a little more than two months we were back again. On the whole, we had had a fairly good shoot-two bison, a buffalo, and a tiger, and a few leopards and bear and sambhur. But we had to work for them. It was beginning to warm up when we turned back. It was too hot for tents. In the daytime, failing a house, the shade of a banaan-tree was best, and at night the open air, unless the west wind was blowing, when one was better in any kind of sty that had walls. We felt the fire-god at Agni Hôtrodu. He was stoking up in good earnest to receive us. The streets of the village were deserted, and the burning air was refracted from the walls, behind which the unhappy villagers were trying to doze through the day. Did I say the place was out of any breeze? When the wind did strike it, it was a blast from

the furnace-door. As we entered Père Caillard's lane, we were struck in the face by the grit of a gathering dust-storm. Each particle stung like a live spark. We half-shut our eyes, and blundered on at a run towards the bungalow. The door was opened furtively for us by Teendu, and shut again to exclude the pursuing volume of air. The very lizard on the wall shrank from the draught.

"Père Caillard was sitting at his table naked to the waist. He greeted us as cheerfully as ever, and laughed at the weather and our plight. Still, it was easy to see he was ill. 'I have been quite well in the daytime,' he said, 'but at night I do not sleep-not until it is nearly light. Then I dream badly. I see things and wish I had not slept.' I told him he ought to sleep in the afternoon.

"I try sometimes,' he said. 'At least I lie down. To-day I was translating the New Testament into the vernacular. But it is difficult, especially the Sermon on the Mount. There is no separate word for love or lust. You must take shelter here. You will not find anywhere cooler to-night.'

"Our men had taken in our valises, and were laying them on the hot bricks of the chapel floor, when we heard another banging at the door. Teendu opened it in the same furtive way, and admitted another fireblast, enveloping a stranger half-blinded by the storm. He wore an English silk suit and a turban, and I heard him say he was going through to Bini,

I skated

at Lingay. I saw the meadows
golden with marsh marigolds
at Grandchester.
It was &
happy interlude, almost as re-
freshing as sleep. When I
opened my eyes he was sitting
up looking at me.
It was
just the poise of the neck, as
he lifted himself up on one
hand, that made me certain-
one of those slight impressions
that lie dormant in a cell at
the back of the brain to recur
after fifteen years.

and had ridden ahead of his drifted in the Backs. kit when he was overtaken by the storm. He introduced himself as Ashgar Ali, of Hyderabad. 'Weren't you at Trinity?' I asked, but the din outside drowned my voice. "The room had become almost dark, and Teendu dragged in a charpoy for the stranger. There is no question of sleep at such a time, as one knows it in a Christian country; but one sinks into a drowsy capitulation, a kind of absentminded trance in which there "He did not recognise me. is staying power, until one Indeed we had not spoken yields to the malady which in- more than half a dozen words fects the place, breeding apathy to each other at Cambridge, and surrender. One calls it but I had heard a good deal sleep, because one is under the about him after I went down. idea that life in all climes is He had been one of the most passed between sleeping and brilliant men of his year. He waking: but it is more stifling took a double first in Law, than renewing, and the inter- and then, for some unaccountmittent returns from it to con- able whim, went in for the sciousness are the most physic- Theological Tripos and took a ally oppressive moments of the first in that with his tongue day. Dry hot stones seem to in his cheek. I had heard he be grinding in one's head; was a one's head; was a Sayyid of a good family one's throat is parched, and in Hyderabad. one's perspiring neck soaks the pillow.

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"I lay like this watching the turbaned man on the charpoy. I was wondering if he was the man I had seen ducked in the fish pond at Emmanuel, It was rather a brutal affair, considering he was a foreigner and so by way of being a guest; but he had deserved it. Ashgar Ali-I was almost sure that was the man's name. He was

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"It was a bad afternoon. I don't know what we would

have done for a meal that
evening, or how we should
have avoided being suffocated,
if the impossible had not hap-
pened. Père Caillard had just
said he was afraid we would
have to keep the door shut
all night, when a tremendous
clap of thunder broke over-
head and the rain came pat-
tering down on the verandah.
It only lasted seven minutes;
but we were new men.
we were miracle-bringers, Père
Caillard told us. 'I believe it
is the first rainfall ever known


here in April,' he said. look out for to-morrow!' "We were able to dine in the tent with the fly up. Ashgar Ali joined us. I found the man so interesting that I thought I would let him show his hand a little before I betrayed my knowledge of his antecedents. I don't think I have ever met a man so much in touch with the modern thought of East and West alike. He had been made a great deal of in London and at the Universities, and was well known to Orientalists in Paris and Berlin. Only the other day I came across his signature in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' The article was on Pan-Islamism, and in his own excellent French. He laughed at the Ben Sefusi movement, and scouted the idea of there being any political danger in it, as all good Muhammadans do, whatever their inner thoughts may be. He was more frank about the pseudoreligious societies of the Hindus. You must remember this was nearly ten years ago, and there was very little talk of sedition then; but he gave me glimpses of a good deal of subterranean mischief which has since seen the light of day. He divined the subtle currents of race antagonism as no white man could. He laid his finger on the pulse of unrest while we were bungling with our thumbs. At the same time, he understood us better than we do ourselves. I really believe he was standing outside all movements, having nothing to gain by any upheaval, But he

might have been invaluable to any official who was in the way of putting him under an obligation."

"What had he to say about my friend of Quadian?" Dalling asked. "Let us hear about Père Caillard first," I said. "What had Ashgar Ali to do with him?"

"I am not quite sure myself," Malaher said, "but, I think, a great deal. You can imagine how amused we were when the dear old padre fell foul of Ashgar Ali and insisted on orossing swords with him.

You must understand that Père Caillard's attitude was polemical. He felt himself bound to wrestle with the devil wherever he met him and cast him out. Well, he seemed to think he had found him in Ashgar Ali, and he felt himself particularly well equipped for the fray, as he had just been reading pamphlet on Muhammad by the Reverend Swami Chetti, published at the Baptist Mission Press in Madras.

"I had purposely let a word slip to let Ashgar Ali discover that I had been a year with him at Trinity. Hence the talk turned to Cambridge and a famous Don known to us both, the greatest then-living authority on Plato. Plato

himself was the next theme. Heath and I were soon a good bit out of our depth. Père Caillard had not followed from the first, but when Ashgar Ali began to talk of the influence of the Neo-Platonic spirit on the writings of St Paul and

the dawn of the Christian truth. Islam is the gospel of faith he listened with wide- reason.' open eyes. Ashgar Ali was soon on more dangerous ground.

66 6

"You can trace the influence of the Essenes all through the teaching of Christ,' he was saying, when Père Caillard burst in angrily.

"Influence!' he bellowed. 'You speak of Him as if He were a man.'

66 6

'A man, certainly! Did He ever lay claim to being anything else? You can almost see how the myth grew, how it was thrust upon the Church, how His words were tortured into it. A few crazy enthusiasts perpetuated a claim for which seas of innocent blood have been shed. Directly and indirectly more victims have perished by it than by any other ideal or institution. Yet remove it and Christianity and Islam are one. Muhammad only developed and systematised the laws of morality which Christ left incomplete.'

"Père Caillard was furious. It was unspeakable, he said, to mention Him and Muhammad in the same breath. Besides, he knew, he had good authority for saying that Muhammad used Satanic

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"Reason! What Christians believe is history. Christ's sepulchre may be seen. Was He lying when He said He was the SON of GOD? If He lied, then He was a very great r-rogue-the greatest r-rogue that ever lived,--but you know His life.'

"Think of Ashgar Ali as very suave and polite, with spectacles and smooth rounded cheeks, almost as red as an apple, and a superior cynical twinkle in his eye, which gave the fellow a confounded look of self-complacency. I believe he meant well, but he was vain, and had no sense of humour or perspective. He regarded every mixed crew as a potential gallery. He argued with this great child as he would with a divinity prizeman of his own college. His suavity irritated me: it maddened Père Caillard. I am sure he thought it Satanic. It implied indifference to issues of the most tremendous import. And there were such ambushes in his talk. He bristled with intangible weapons. Poor Père Caillard seemed to be inflicted with cramps and twinges. He did not understand much of what Ashgar Ali was saying, but he would catch at his last word and retort with some missile from the forge of the Reverend Swami Chetti-facts more demolishing demolishing to Islam than all the processes of logio. I am afraid Père Caillard made an awful ass of himself. His voice grew so loud that Teendu ran in and fidgeted behind his


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