Chirapore, the capital of the large native state of Chirakul was situated on plateau land. In the months of March and April the thermometer rose above ninety degrees; but the rest of the year the climate was subtropical in character, and accounted cool as compared with the plains.

The plateau was bounded on one side by hills-spurs of the Western Ghats-where the virgin forest nestled in the ravines and valleys, and big game wandered free and unmolested by the war of extermination that progressive man too often wages in his encroachment upon nature.

Between the hills and Chirapore lay fields of grain and topes of fruit trees, the latter always green in the subtropical climate; there was a continual passing from seed-time to harvest, from flower to fruit without the paralysing inactivity induced by the hard winters of the temperate zone, or the fiery tropical summers of the torrid regions.

The city itself was built upon undulating ground, its centre being the old fort. Before British rule was established the inhabitants of Chirapore lived as near to the fort as was possible, seeking protection from the guns; but in later days, when there was no longer any fear of Mahratta horsemen, they ventured further afield, and the town was extended upon the smiling plateau in nobler lines. Handsome roads lined with private houses or shops intersected the suburbs. Many of the larger dwellings were older than the roads, and stood within their own grounds, a wall dividing them from the public way and ensuring the privacy essential to the happiness of caste families.

It was in one of these substantial mansions that Ananda's father, known as Pantulu Iyer, lived. It had belonged to the family for several generations. In course of time Ananda would inherit it with the silk farms and looms by which Pantulu and his immediate ancestors had accumulated a considerable fortune. As is usual with families of good caste and wealth, the members were numerous, including relatives of near and distant degree. There was no lack of room for them in the large house; and many of them gave their services in the domestic work of cooking and housekeeping.

Pantulu's wife, a woman of character, full of pride and caste prejudice, ruled the household with a firm but not unkind hand. Her position was strengthened by the fact that she was her husband's first and only wife. She had given him a son, and he was satisfied. Ananda had fulfilled all their dearest expectations; and as has already been stated, the parents had sent him to England to complete an education that should eventually fit him for a post in the Maharajah's Government, an assistant-commissionership; and later, perhaps, a place on the Council. To a father's ambition for his son there is no limit. Pantulu saw no reason why his son should not one day step into the Dewan's shoes should an opportunity occur.

The time approached for the return of the son of the house. News had been received of Coomara's death, but not a word had been said of the effect it had produced upon Ananda, nor of the grave consequences that had ensued.

Bopaul, travelling with his friend, was careful to drop no hint. He knew intuitively that the step Ananda had taken could not fail to rouse a disastrous storm. Bopaul had a fastidious dislike to storms; and the longer the announcement of the change of religion could be deferred the better pleased he would be. He was in no way responsible for the actions of the other; but it was possible that he might be drawn into the trouble that it must inevitably raise.

During the voyage out the subject of Ananda's change of religion was not mentioned between the two friends. Bopaul felt strongly that there was nothing to be said one way or the other. The deed was done and could not be undone. If the step had only been under contemplation and not irrevocably taken, he might have urged delay, consultation with the head of the family, consideration for the feelings of others besides himself. It was too late for all that; therefore it was useless to discuss it, and he kept a discreet silence.

Ananda attended the services held on Sunday for the benefit of the passengers and ship's officers. No one spoke to him on the subject of religion or attempted to win his confidence. His history was not known nor were his companions aware, with the exception of Bopaul, that he had accepted Christianity. He followed the service reverently; and if any one troubled himself with conjectures, he probably came to the conclusion that the young man had received baptism. For all that was known he might have been born a Christian.

Bopaul glanced at the peaceful face of his friend when he rejoined him on deck after the service, and wondered if Ananda realised what was before him. Of a nature inclined to shrink from any violent display of emotion, how would he meet the turbulent passions that would be roused in every member of his family as soon as the news was told. Did he realise all that was involved? He had been well instructed in the doctrines of Hinduism by his guru; and he had duly performed the various ceremonies prescribed at different periods of childhood and youth by the laws of his religion. What thought was it that stirred in his mind as he leaned on the taffrail and looked pensively down at the seething white froth churned by the passage of the big ship through the waters of the Indian Ocean?

Bopaul would have lifted his eyebrows in amused surprise could he have seen the figure that filled the mental vision of his friend. It was none other than Dorama, the young wife to whom after a long absence he was returning.

When the marriage took place bride and bridegroom were but children. The depths of their emotions were unruffled by the honeymoon which was spent, according to custom, three years later under the paternal roof. Two or three years of placid married life followed, during which Ananda was still absorbed in his studies, and Dorama was engaged in housewifely duties under the supervision of an autocratic mother-in-law, who was not unkind, but rigidly exacting, with no leaning whatever towards modern innovations.

Then came the birth of the son. Ananda found it a little difficult to believe that he had really attained the much-desired estate of paternity. He let his eyes rest on the girl-mother and his child with wondrous delight. The sight of them stirred him strangely, and awoke new longings that he did not understand. Those longings were the instinctive desires of the animal man to claim his mate for himself; and to carry her and her baby to some remote fastness, where he could hide her from the swarms of relatives who in their joy seemed to think that she belonged to them rather than to him. He wanted to gloat over her beauty, her wifehood and her motherhood, and to exult in sole possession. What did it mean? It almost awed him in its strength and insistence. Surely he was not rebelling against the time-honoured custom of the family life! He was not seeking to leave the home of his fathers!

Then came the journey to England and the separation. The underlying, scarcely recognised discontent vanished with the excitement of travel; but the memory of Dorama in her new character did not fade. On the contrary, it grew clearer and more beautiful the longer he cherished it, gathering romance and raising the wife far above all other women.

He determined that he would ask his father to give him a house of his own on his return with a suitable establishment over which his wife could rule. The plan commended itself for more reasons than one. Since he had changed his religion and adopted many western habits as well, his parents, who were people of discernment, could not fail to understand the necessity for some such arrangement. They might not like it; they might not be pleased that those western habits were adopted; they would assuredly disapprove of the change of religion; but when they comprehended that the changes had been effected to increase the comfort and happiness, spiritually as well as bodily, of their son, they would become reconciled. In sending him to England they must have been aware of the risks he ran of assimilating the ideas of the people among whom he had to live in such close intimacy. The doubts that troubled the keener-witted Bopaul did not therefore ruffle his serenity. He had no forebodings of the thunder-clouds that were gathering.

Pantulu, in company with Bopaul's father, went to Bombay to meet the mail boat. They decided not to go on board, but to await the coming of the travellers on the landing-stage. As Ananda and his companion stepped ashore with the throng of passengers the two men pressed forward. The sons folded their hands in reverence, and then extended the right in the clasp that is general in these days all over the world. The greeting attracted no attention, so quiet was it in its nature; but underneath the simple formalities lay a feeling too deep for words. Later, when the luggage had been disposed of and they were in the privacy of their own sitting-room in the hotel, Ananda, who had been unusually silent, spoke.

"I have something to say, my beloved and honourable father."

At the words Bopaul sprang to his feet.

"Come, sir," he said to his father, "we will leave his Excellency Pantulu Iyer with my friend Ananda to talk over their private affairs--"

Before the older man could rise, Ananda said hastily-

"Stop, Bopaul! I wish you to remain and hear what I have to say. Possibly I may have to ask you to confirm my statement. My father may otherwise find it difficult of belief."

Bopaul reseated himself, looking ill at ease. His father, influenced by a suddenly roused curiosity, which he had no scruples in satisfying, showed a disinclination to move. The eyes of both parents were fixed in surprise upon the sons, and they waited breathless to hear what communication Ananda had to make to his father.

Pantulu had removed his turban and replaced it by a velvet cap that covered his shaven head and the knot of hair on the crown. He had drawn his feet up beneath him, and his thoughts, if they were occupied at all, were busy building up a gilded future, in which his son was the chief figure. It took some seconds to detach his mind from his ambitious visions and concentrate it upon the fact that Ananda had something to say. In his old-fashioned opinion, children listened; it was for the parents to speak.

With mild astonishment he fixed his eyes upon his son. No suspicion of the blow that was impending crossed his mind. Doubtless Ananda was going to suggest an extension of the visit to Bombay that they might see a little of the Presidency town before going south.

"My father, I hope that it will not trouble you to learn that during my residence in England I have adopted many of the ways of that country."

"They will soon pass off, my son, when you return home and find yourself in the family once more. It is well to have a knowledge now-a-days of western customs, many of which the Maharajah himself has adopted. The time may come when you will often find yourself in his presence. Your English experience will serve you well on those occasions."

Ananda listened in silence without interrupting the speaker. Bopaul showed more uneasiness, rising from his chair and moving restlessly about the room as though longing to escape.

"I have learned to like the ways I have adopted-and the dress."

Ananda glanced down at the neat frock coat and trousers that became his figure and set it off to advantage.

"Our Maharajah wears the same kind of garments. There is no reason why you should not retain the dress in public."

"I intend to retain the dress and habits of English life," he replied with decision. Then, after a slight pause that seemed to the listeners to be shadowed by some strange unknown danger, he continued: "But this is not all. After much thought and deliberation I have also adopted the religion of England."

A dead silence greeted this announcement. Its full meaning did not immediately strike the listeners. Bopaul glanced from one to the other. The expression on the face of his own father held his attention. It was a curious mixture of astonishment, dismay, and incredulity. The jaw dropped; the eyes opened to their widest extent, and the brows were like two rainbows, so arched had they become. Bopaul had that insane desire to laugh which seizes men and women at a crisis fraught with possible disaster; he turned his back on the company to hide his trembling lips. An inarticulate sound made him look round. It came from his own parent, who struggled in vain to frame a question.

Bopaul divined its import. Was he, too, a renegade, a 'vert? He controlled his lips and strangled his ill-timed mirth. A sign in the negative set his father's mind at rest on that point, and enabled the older man to give his undivided attention to what was passing between Pantulu and his son.

Pantulu, like his friend, had been struck dumb by the shock of Ananda's statement. He moistened his lips, and after a few ineffectual attempts accomplished articulation. His voice sounded strange and unlike his usual tone.

"You have-adopted-the religion of-England, my son! I fail to grasp your meaning!"

"I have become a Christian."

Ananda spoke clearly, but with a doggedness that seemed a little forced. Under his calmness lurked timidity. Bopaul detected it and again his lips quivered, this time with the ghost of a scornful smile. It required a magnificent courage and enormous endurance for a caste man to make such a change. If he knew Ananda aright his friend had no great store of either courage or endurance. His Christianity would soon be knocked out of him when the family had him back again in the old home away from foreign influences, unless he, Bopaul, was very much mistaken.

Pantulu dropped his feet to the ground, raised himself by the arms of the lounge on which he was seated, and rose without haste to his full height. The folds of his soft white muslin cloth fell over his lower limbs, the flowing drapery giving him an oriental dignity that was patriarchal. He wore a dark-blue serge coat, a white shirt and linen collar, with tie to match the coat. Everything was of the best quality and fitted his aristocratic well-made figure without fault. On the little finger of his right hand shone a diamond of rare beauty, his only ornament. The sparkle of the gem caught Ananda's eye as the hand was slightly raised in growing horror.

"A Christian! a Christian!" he repeated. Then lowering his hand he seemed to shake off the horror by an effort of will. "I have not understood you, my son. There is some mistake. Whatever strange customs you may have thought fit to adopt during your stay in England, you must drop them now. They have served their purpose, and they must be thrown aside like the strange weeds that as a child you gathered in the jungle, and cast upon the dust heap on your return before entering the house. You have returned to the home of your fathers a Hindu, an orthodox Hindu, a Vishnuvite. Even now at this moment the Swami, our guru, waits at our house in Chirapore to see the ceremonies performed that will restore your caste and purify you from the pollution of these western habits."

The voice grew firmer until it rang out like a sharply-struck bell. Yet for all its firmness there was a strain of desperate entreaty running through it, as though the speaker waited in passionate hope for confirmation of his assertions. That confirmation did not come. Ananda, as he stood before his father, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other; and as the elder ceased speaking he said falteringly-

"No caste ceremonies will be required. I have given up Hinduism. I have been baptised and received into the English Church. It is not necessary to look so serious over it, honoured father. All that will be needed can be done without difficulty. It will be advisable to give me a separate house and establishment for myself and my wife and son, since our presence will naturally create trouble for my mother in the preparation of food. I am also prepared to find that many members of your household may demand my exclusion from the family circle."

Ananda's even voice appeared to have a paralysing effect upon both the older men; for they were silent. Bopaul's father was the first to find his tongue.

"My friend, I am sorry for this. It is an unspeakable misfortune."

Pity, unsolicited and unexpected, and equally unwelcome, broke the spell and opened the floodgates of wrath. Again the diamond flashed as the paternal hand was raised.

"A Christian! My son a cursed Christian! an outcaste! an alien! lower than the pariah, more loathed than the punchama sweeper! Oh! what have I done that the gods should curse me thus? What sin have I committed that I should be thus afflicted and punished? My son! my only son!" Once more a desperate effort was made to reject, to disbelieve the terrible news. "My little son!" he used the pet name by which Ananda had been known as a child, and it came from his lips with infinite tenderness. "My little son! tell me you have but joked, and that you have been playing upon your poor old father's fears. Be satisfied that you have startled and frightened him. Now reassure him! restore him to happiness, my little son! Be kind and tender in your strong young manhood to one who is growing old and whose life is bound up in yours."

He placed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed his proud head in humble entreaty. Bopaul once more turned his back upon the company and strode towards one of the windows. The sight of Pantulu's grief and distress pained him more than he cared to admit. Ananda did not hear the appeal unmoved. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he too averted his gaze from a sight that sent a sharp knife through his heart; but, like all weak natures, he possessed a strain of obstinacy that came now to his assistance. Bopaul, who had more force of character, could not have listened to such an appeal from his father without wavering in his determination, no matter how great might have been his courage. With Ananda it had a contrary effect. It distressed and pained him beyond expression; but it strengthened rather than weakened his resolve, and created a desire to justify his action. He answered firmly and decisively, and in that answer his father recognised the obstinacy of the perverse boy who so often succeeded in getting his own way in spite of his timid nature.

"It is true. I am a Christian, and I intend to remain a Christian. I am sorry if it hurts you, my father; but I have arrived at man's estate and must judge for myself. I have taken the step deliberately and with due thought and consideration."

"This is the Professor's doing, him to whom I entrusted you!" cried Pantulu, his wrath rising hotly.

"No, it is not! The Professor had nothing to do with it!" replied Ananda, in a sharp, clear voice. He turned to Bopaul, who was still standing with his back to them. "Reassure my father on this point, please. Had Professor Twyford or his family anything to do with the step I have taken?"

"To the best of my belief, none. He showed as much astonishment when you announced the change as I felt myself. What was more, he was terribly disturbed by the news."

Pantulu made no comment on this confirmation of his son's story, and Ananda began again.

"It happened in this way--"

"Silence!" thundered his father, in a voice that made them all start. "When the dhoby's donkey falls into the tank, does it bring him to life again to explain what caused his foot to slip? Thou art cursed! cursed! cursed! No longer shalt thou be a son of mine! I am childless! Go from my sight, and never let my eyes fall upon thee again!"

He used the language usually addressed to inferiors, and it stung.

"Let me explain, most excellent father--"

"Call me not father, son of a dog!"

"If you would only let me speak, I can--"

"Sooner would I listen to the 'untouchable' who cleans the gutters and carries away the contents of the dustbin! Go!"

He moved towards him threateningly. Ananda stepped back a pace or two, but did not show any sign of leaving the room.

"It is not fair to judge any one unheard," he began again; but he was not allowed to finish the sentence. Pantulu, beside himself with rage, advanced with uplifted hand and brought his fist down upon his son's face. The diamond caught his lip and tore it open. Blood flowed and dropped upon the white shirt-front, leaving a large red stain.

Bopaul rushed forward, interposing himself between the two, and pushed his friend through the doorway leading to his bedroom.

The outraged father glared after his son and panted out in gasps-

"Never in the whole course of the boy's life have I laid a hand upon him. What have I done! What have I done!"

He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Joy, ambition, paternal pride, all had been extinguished, leaving him a broken and miserable man.