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Now they were at the head of the one crooked village street, and the Bhagat beat with his crutch on the barred windows of the blacksmith's house, as his torch blazed up in the shelter of the eaves. "Up and out!" cried Purun Bhagat; and he did not know his own voice, for it was years since he had spoken aloud to a man. "The hill falls! The hill is falling! Up and out, oh, you within!"
Purun Bhagat dropped fainting by his side, for the chill of the rain and that fierce climb were killing him; but first he called to the scattered torches ahead, "Stay and count your numbers"; then, whispering to the deer as he saw the lights gather in a cluster: "Stay with me, Brother. Stay till I go!"
Was he going to stay? asked the priest. Would he need a chela a disciple to beg for him? Had he a blanket against the cold weather? Was the food good? Purun Bhagat ate, and thanked the giver. It was in his mind to stay. That was sufficient, said the priest.
It died away, and the sound of the rain falling on miles of hard ground and grass changed to the muffled drum of water on soft earth. That told its own tale. Never a villager not even the priest was bold enough to speak to the Bhagat who had saved their lives. They crouched under the pines and waited till the day.
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