The crowd--all heads bowed, as decreed--drew in its breath and held it.

A sea of pugrees moved as brown eyes looked up surreptitiously--stared--memorized--and then looked down again.

There was no precedent for this happening, and even the Maharajah and the priests were at a momentary loss--stood waiting, staring--and said nothing.
"Maharajah-sahib!--I must interrupt your ceremony.

I must have word with you at once!" It was Duncan McClean, bareheaded, holding his daughter's hand.

They had no weapons; they were messengers of peace, protesting, or so they looked.