/*
Come, Sin, O beautiful Sin,
Let thy stinging red kisses pour down fiery red wine into our
blood.
Sound the trumpet of imperious evil
And cross our forehead with the wreath of exulting lawlessness,
O Deity of Desecration,
Smear our breasts with the blackest mud of disrepute,
unashamed.
*/

Down with that righteousness, which cannot smilingly bring rack
and ruin."

When Sandip Babu, standing with his head high, insulted at a
moment's impulse all that men have cherished as their highest, in
all countries and in all times, a shiver went right through my
body.

But, with a stamp of his foot, he continued his declamation: "I
can see that you are that beautiful spirit of fire, which burns
the home to ashes and lights up the larger world with its flame.
Give to us the indomitable courage to go to the bottom of Ruin
itself. Impart grace to all that is baneful."

It was not clear to whom Sandip Babu addressed his last appeal.
It might have been She whom he worshipped with his __Bande
Mataram__. It might have been the Womanhood of his country.
Or it might have been its representative, the woman before him.