"
A diabolical inspiration came to me. One of the brats, a boy about eight years
old--could he have been in the fields last night?--was watching me as he sung.
I pulled out a rupee, held the coin between finger and thumb, and looked--only
looked--at the gun leaning against the wall. A grin of brilliant and perfect
comprehension overspread his porringer-like face. Never for an instant stopping
the song, he held out his hand for the money, and then slid the gun to my hand.
I might have shot Namgay Doola dead as he chanted, but I was satisfied. The
inevitable blood-instinct held true. Namgay Doola drew the curtain across the
recess. Angelus was over.
"Thus my father sung. There was much more, but I have forgotten, and I do not
know the purport of even these words, but it may be that the god will
understand. I am not of this people, and I will not pay revenue."
"And why?"
Again that soul-compelling grin. "What occupation would be to me between crop
and crop? It is better than scaring bears. But these people do not understand."
He picked the masks off the floor and looked in my face as simply as a child.
"By what road didst thou attain knowledge to make those deviltries?" I said,
pointing.
"I cannot tell.
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