Couzens was charmed with the gentle, cultured, clever Brahman. He had never before met a man who could argue in such a strangely convincing manner.
And indeed, Krishnavana gave of his best. His speech was a butterfly which rests for a second on a trembling leaf; his sarcasm was a thousand splintering lance-points, and his knowledge of the mysterious roots which are the creeds and the hearts of men, was profound and astounding. His mental strength was a cat in climbing, a deer in running, a snake in twisting, a hawk in pouncing, and a dog in scenting.
And so he got beneath the Englishman's skin, and caused him to delve into the depths of his self-consciousness … and to find them empty. And then, gently and slowly, Krishnavana began to fill up the emptiness in Oughtred's heart with new wisdom, new suggestions, and the sweetly pungent odor of the Eastern mysteries which putrify the brains and plague-spot the hearts of Western men.
It is true that Oughtred fought hard for the old belief which was his happiness, his life, his very reason for existence. But he was as soft clay in a potter's hands.
