Here and there, silhouetted in the firelight, he could see the pugrees and occasional long poles of men who prodded at the embers.

Ululating through the din of tom-toms he could catch the wails of women.

He shuddered, prayed a little, and went in.
That day even the little bazaar fosterlings, whom he had begged, and coaxed, and taught, had all deserted to be present at the burning of three widows.

Even the lepers in the tiny hospital that he had started had limped out for a distant view.

He had watched a year's work all disintegrating in a minute at the call of bestial, loathsome, blood-hungry superstition.
And he was a man of iron, as Christian missionaries go.