THE MAN OF faith moves on along pitiless paths strewn with flints over scorching sands and steep mountainous tracks. They follow him, the strong and the weak, the aged and young, the rulers of realms, the tillers of the soil. Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and suspicious. They ask at every dragging step, 'How much further is the end?' The Man of faith sings in answer; they scowl and shake their fists and yet they cannot resist him; the pressure of the moving mass and indefinite hope push them forward. They shorten their sleep and curtail their rest, they out-vie each other in their speed, they are ever afraid lest they may be too late for their chance while others be more fortunate. The days pass, the ever-receding horizon tempts them with renewed lure of the unseen till they are sick. Their faces harden, their curses grow louder and louder.
IT IS NIGHT. The travellers spread their mats on the ground under the banyan tree. A gust of wind blows out the lamp and the darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon. Someone from the crowd suddenly stands up and pointing to the leader with merciless finger breaks out: 'False prophet, thou hast deceived us!' Others take up the cry one by one, women hiss their hatred and men growl. At last one bolder than others suddenly deals him a blow. They cannot see his face, but fall upon him in a fury of destruction and hit him till he lies prone upon the ground his life extinct. The night is still, the sound of the distant waterfall comes muffled and a faint breath of jasmine floats in the air.
