They believe in him, they pray to him, they make offerings to him, they beg of him remission of sins; to them his person, together with everything connected with it, is sacred; from his barber they buy the parings of his nails and set them in gold, and wear them as precious amulets.
I tried to seem tranquilly conversational and at rest, but I was not.
Would you have been?
I was in a suppressed frenzy of excitement and curiosity and glad wonder.

I could not keep my eyes off him.

I was looking upon a god, an actual god, a recognized and accepted god; and every detail of his person and his dress had a consuming interest for me.
And the thought went floating through my head, "He is worshiped--think of it--he is not a recipient of the pale homage called compliment, wherewith the highest human clay must make shift to be satisfied, but of an infinitely richer spiritual food: adoration, worship!--men and women lay their cares and their griefs and their broken hearts at his feet; and he gives them his peace; and they go away healed." And just then the Awful Visitor said, in the simplest way--"There is a feature of the philosophy of Huck Finn which"-- and went luminously on with the construction of a compact and nicely-discriminated literary verdict.
It is a land of surprises--India! I had had my ambitions--I had hoped, and almost expected, to be read by kings and presidents and emperors--but I had never looked so high as That.

It would be false modesty to pretend that I was not inordinately pleased.

I was.