There was a moving throng of pilgrims that poured along in a joyous
turbulent stream toward the bridge. No shadow of the dread god, Omkar,
gloomed their spirits; they chatted and laughed. Of those who would
make devotions the men were stripped to the waist, their limbs draped
in spotless white. And the women, on their way to have their sins
forgiven, were taking final license--the _purdah_ of the veil was
almost forgotten, for this was permitted in the presence of the god.
Even their beautifully formed bodies and limbs, the skin fresh
anointed, gleaming like copper in the sunlight, showed entrancingly,
voluptuously, with a new-born liberty.
Once, half way of the bridge, a man's voice rang out commandingly,
calling backward, admonishing some one to hurry, crying, "It is the
_kurban_!"
Barlow started; the _kurban_ meant a human sacrifice. He looked at
Bootea--he could have sworn her head had drooped, and that she
shivered. The girl must have sensed his thoughts, for she turned her
eyes up to his, but they held nothing of fear.
Beyond the bridge they passed across a lower level, jungle clad with
delicate bamboos and dhak, and sweet-scented shrubs, and clusters of
gorgeous oleanders.
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