wrong-doers in the dust! For the sake of dishonorable peace they leave
these native states to misgovern themselves and stink to high heaven!
Will God allow what they do? The shame and the sin is on England's
head! Her statesmen shut their eyes and cry 'Peace, peace!' where
there is no peace. Her queen sits idle on the throne while widows
burn, screaming, in the flames of superstitious priests. Men tell her,
'All is well; there is British rule in India!' They are too busy
robbing widows in the Isle of Skye to lend an ear to the cries of
India's widows! Corruption--superstition--murder--lies--black
wrong--black selfishness--all growing rank beneath the shadow of
the British rule--how long will God let that last?"

He was pacing up and down like a caged lion, not looking at Rosemary,
not speaking to her--speaking to himself, and giving rein to all the
rankling rage at wrong that wrong had nurtured in him since his
boyhood. She knelt still by the chair, her eyes following him as he
raged up and down the matted floor. She pitied him more than she did
India.

When he took the one lamp at last and set it where the light would fall
above his writing pad, she left the room and went to stand at the
street-door, where the sluggish night air was a degree less stifling
than in the mud-plastered, low-ceilinged room. As she stood there, one
hand on either door-post to remind her she was living in a concrete
world, not a charred whisp swaying in the heat, a black thing rose out
of the blackness, and the toothless hag held out a bony hand and
touched her.

"Is it not time yet for the word to go?" she asked.