Only one door led into it from the buildings which
lined it on three sides, a door under the Rajah's suite of apartments.
That potentate was sprawling on a pile of soft cushions, glaring
malevolently at his Chief Minister, whom he hated and feared.
"Curses on thee, _Dewan-ji_!" he muttered, turning uneasily and groaning
with the pain of movement. For he was badly bruised, sore, and shaken, from
his treatment by the crowd on the previous day.
"Why on me, O Maharaj?" asked the _Dewan_, looking at him steadily and with
hardly-veiled contempt.
"Because thine was the idea of this foolish celebration yesterday. Mother
Durga was angry with me for introducing this foreign way of worship,"
answered the superstitious atheist, conveniently forgetting that the idea
was his own. "It will cost me large sums to these greedy priests, if she is
not to punish me further."
"Not for that reason, but for another, is the Holy Mother enraged, O
Maharaj," replied his Minister. "For the lack of a sweeter sacrifice than
we offered her yesterday."
"What is that?" demanded the Rajah suspiciously. He distrusted his _Dewan_
more than any one else in his service.
"Canst thou ask? Thou who bearest on thy forehead the badge of the Saktas?"
"Thou meanest a human sacrifice?"
"I do."
"I have given Durga many," grumbled the Rajah.
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