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diff --git a/old/69721-0.txt b/old/69721-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0c3c6f1..0000000 --- a/old/69721-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11393 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Flame-Gatherers, by Margaret -Horton Potter - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Flame-Gatherers - -Author: Margaret Horton Potter - -Release Date: January 7, 2023 [eBook #69721] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor, Les Galloway and the - Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLAME-GATHERERS *** - - Transcriber’s Notes - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations -in hyphenation and accents remain. - -Italics are represented thus _italic_. - - - - - THE FLAME-GATHERERS - - - [Illustration: Publisher’s Monogram] - - - THE FLAME-GATHERERS - - BY - - MARGARET HORTON POTTER - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. - 1904 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - COPYRIGHT, 1904, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1904. - Reprinted September, 1904. - - - Norwood Press - J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co. - Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - - TO - - Gerhardt Hauptmann - - WITH THE PROFOUND ADMIRATION - - OF THE AUTHOR - - - - - PRELUDE - - - “UP FROM EARTH’S CENTRE THROUGH THE SEVENTH GATE - I ROSE, AND ON THE THRONE OF SATURN SATE; - AND MANY A KNOT UNRAVELLED BY THE ROAD, - BUT NOT THE MASTER KNOT OF HUMAN FATE.”[1] - - GREAT OMAR, THIS VAGUE TALE RETOLD CONTAINS - PART ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE. ALLAH DEIGNS - A LITTLE WISDOM THROUGH THE MOST UNWISE: - THE SECRET OF THE UNIVERSE IN CHAINS. - - BEHOLD IT, WRITTEN FOR THE OCCIDENT. - AH! WILL THEY SEE, ALTHOUGH THE VEIL IS RENT? - OR WILL NOT ONE BELIEVER PAUSE BEFORE - THE TATTERED GLORIES OF THE ORIENT? - M. H. P. - - [1] “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” Ed. Fitzgerald, trans. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - BOOK I - - FLESH-FIRE - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE CONQUEROR 3 - - II. THE INCEPTION OF A FLAME 22 - - III. AHALYA 39 - - IV. THE ASRA RUBY 58 - - V. POPPIES 74 - - VI. CHURI 88 - - VII. THE POWER OF THE FLAME 109 - - VIII. THE CURSE 134 - - IX. ASRA FIGHTS AGAIN 150 - - X. THE SONG OF NARMÁDA 163 - - - BOOK II - - SOUL-FIRE - - I. THE SON OF GOKAMA 175 - - II. OMAN THE CHILD 185 - - III. HIS SOLITUDE 196 - - IV. HUSHKA IN THE MARKET-PLACE 206 - - V. YELLOW-ROBED 227 - - VI. THE VIHARA OF TRUTH 240 - - VII. THE WHEEL OF THE LAW 254 - - VIII. THE OUTCAST 265 - - IX. THE STRUGGLE ON THE HEIGHT 283 - - X. THE WANDERER 299 - - XI. SUNRISE 315 - - XII. MANDU IN MALWA 323 - - XIII. A BROTHER OF THE SOUL 332 - - XIV. THE ANCIENT FLAME 353 - - XV. THE RIVER TEMPLE 370 - - XVI. “LA-ILAHA-IL-LAL-LAHA” 384 - - XVII. THE SIGN OF THE RUBY 399 - - XVIII. SUNSET 411 - - - - - BOOK I - - FLESH-FIRE - - - “Daily walked, in radiant beauty, - To and fro, the Sultan’s daughter; - In the twilight, where the fountain - Ripples o’er with crystal water. - Day by day the youthful slave stood - In the twilight, where the fountain - Ripples o’er with crystal water. - Daily he grew pale and paler. - - “Once at evening came the Princess - To his side, with hurried accents: - ‘Tell thy name, for I would know it; - And thy home, thy sire, and kindred.’ - - “And the slave replied: - ‘My name is Mahomet. I come from Yemen, - And my race is the race of Asra, - Who must die if love they cherish!’” - - —HEINRICH HEINE, “The Asra.” - - - - - THE FLAME-GATHERERS - - - - - CHAPTER I - - THE CONQUEROR - - -The sun was setting over the Narmáda plain. In the midst of long -stretches of sunburnt farm land the waters of the great river rolled -and flashed with light. The barren millet-fields were illumined with -long streaks of yellow sunshine that ran to the base of Mandu, an -immense plateau, rising sheer from the lowlands to a height of some -three or four hundred feet. Between it and the nearest of the Vindhyas -is a deep chasm, a quarter of a mile or more in width, bridged over -by a miracle of man, a stone causeway, many centuries old even on the -day of September 6, in the year of the Christian Lord 1205, and of the -Hejira 601. - -This causeway, a vast, stone bridge, supported on piers built up from -the rocks below, balustraded to a height of five feet, and finished on -each corner by watch-towers in which lookouts were always stationed, -made the single approach to the otherwise impregnable plateau which -formed in itself the entire principality of Mandu. Remarkable among -Indian ruins to-day are those that crown the deserted height of this -unique spot: temples, houses, and vast palaces of the most ancient -times; and at the period of which we speak, the opening years of the -thirteenth century, Mandu was in the heyday of its Indian glory, -renowned throughout the West for its wealth, its power, and the -righteousness of its rulers. - -The rice harvest was just beginning, and the inhabitants of -Mandu—Brahman, Vaisya, Sudra, and Pariah alike—were busily engaged in -this toil of peace. The Kshatriyas, or warrior part of the population, -were not in the minds of their fellows to-day; for at the end of the -rains they had marched to the north on an expedition against an army of -Mohammedans by whom their neighbors of Dhár were beset. - -The great causeway was deserted save for its lookouts and a fakir who -had chosen to light a harvest Ishti on the stones near the southwest -tower. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the silence was broken -by a sudden screaming of birds and monkeys in the wooded mountain gorge -beyond the bridge. Two of the guards stretched themselves and looked -out along the pass—looked, and were transfixed. Shrill trumpet-notes -and the faint beating of hoofs along a rocky road became suddenly -audible. The glint of spear-heads shone among the trees. Lastly came -the tapping of the tiny saddle-drums. Two of the soldiers shouted -together: “Avalu! They are coming!” and, leaping down to the bridge, -started at breakneck pace toward the fields, crying as they ran: “The -army! The soldiers! Lord Rajah! They are here! They have returned!” - -The other two guards made no move to leave their advantageous posts. -The Brahman, also, abandoning his invocation to Agni, mounted the -nearest tower, to watch the arrival of his earthly ruler. He had -scarcely taken up his position when the vanguard of returning warriors -rode out upon the bridge, a glittering company, headed by the -stateliest of figures, at whose approach the guards all but knelt in -salute to their ruler, Rai-Khizar-Pál, Rajah of Mandu in the country -of Malwa, a brave and noble king. Slightly behind him rode two other -richly dressed men, mounted on beautiful horses, each of whom came in -for some share of the acknowledgments of the guards,—Puran, captain of -the troops, and Ragunáth, confidential adviser of the Rajah. Slowly, -for the horses were fagged with long marching, the three passed over -the bridge, followed by a lengthening train of officers and men, horse -and foot, over whose robes of crimson and white and green played the -last beams of the setting sun, sending off a dazzle of light from the -rubies that fastened a long spray of white feathers to the turban of -the Rajah. - -By the time the first of the cavalcade had entered the broad road -leading straight across the plateau to the palaces at its eastern end, -throngs of field-workers and people of the town had begun to line the -edges of the route; for the news of the army’s return had spread from -one end of the plateau to the other, and men and women left their -work and, stained and disordered with toil, rushed to the road to -greet their ruler and their defenders. A well-built lot of people they -were, by far the greater number of the men invested with the cord of -the twice-born. And their king’s popularity was very evident from the -welcome they were giving him. Men of the Brahman caste lifted their -hands to him, Vaisyas fell upon their knees, and Sudras and Pariahs -prostrated themselves upon the earth till he had passed. Then all stood -gazing eagerly at the slow-moving file of troops. Jests, salutations, -and words of welcome passed between the onlookers and the returning -warriors; and the general spirit of joy was redoubled when it was found -that the campaign, short as it had been, was also a victorious one. -Evidences of victory presently became visible; for, at the end of the -lines of foot-soldiers, came a long string of captives, many on foot, -a few mounted upon mules, these last with their feet bound together by -thongs passed round the animals, their arms tied behind them with ropes -of hide, and the beasts themselves fastened together in a long chain. -Beside this mounted company, who represented captives of station, rode -a soldier armed with a triple-lashed whip, which he used with no great -degree of compassion upon the backs of his charges. - -These captives were greeted by the onlookers with shouts of triumph, -but with no insults or even unfriendly remarks. The followers of the -Prophet were still rather mythical enemies to these dwellers of the -Dekhan. Mahmoud of Ghazni was a name they recognized; but Aybek, the -great slave, who had just mounted the throne of Delhi, was as unreal to -them as their own kings who had died three thousand years ago, in the -first conquest of India. These captives now among them were tangible -enough, but they presented too abject an appearance to give any idea -of their force in battle. The chagrin of captivity, the many days of -riding and walking, the intolerable suffering occasioned by their -bonds, had broken the spirit of all save one, who rode at the head of -the pitiable procession. He was young, this man, good to look on even -in his unkempt state, and his clothes, through the stains of war and -woe, showed their richness. He sat straight on his unsaddled mule, and -his head was not bent down. He seemed to notice nothing of what passed -around him, but kept his eyes fixed far ahead on the long, curving -range of blackened mountains, lighted by the glow of the sunset sky -that blazed behind them. His dignity and his unconsciousness made him -a continual object of interest to the crowd, and the slave-master was -under a running fire of questions which he was not slow to answer. - -“He is a prince, a son of the enemy’s leader. He will bring a great -ransom,” he repeated again and again, proudly. - -Cheers never failed to follow the explanation; and, after some twenty -minutes of this trial, the Arab’s head for the first time drooped, and -a deep sigh broke from him. - -“Let not my lord grieve,” whispered the person riding next behind -him, a boy, scarcely more than fifteen years in age. “My lord will be -ransomed.” - -But the Mohammedan sighed again, making no answer; and the -slave-master, overhearing the whisper, cut off the conversation with -a quick stroke of his whip on the back of the boy, who bore it, as he -bore all things for his Prince, without a sound. - -By this time the road, which had hitherto run through grain-fields, -approached a building set, as was the custom with many Indian temples -and palaces, in the midst of a square pool of water. The structure was -built of white stone, in the usual massive and grotesque Indian style, -and seemed only approachable by a narrow path between two glassy sheets -of water, which reflected in their mirror-depths the clumps of wild -cotton trees, graceful bamboos, and feathery tamarinds by which they -were surrounded. The eyes of the captives, turned from this structure -only when it lay behind them, were instantly fixed upon another, -infinitely greater, which a new bend in the road disclosed a few -hundred yards beyond. The entrance to this new building was filled with -a bustling throng, for here the soldiers were dismounting. It was the -dwelling of the rulers of Mandu; and in five minutes more the captives -themselves had halted in the huge, unpaved courtyard round which the -palace was built. - -The sun had now set and the brief twilight sunk into darkness. A -bonfire burned already in the centre of the courtyard, and its fitful, -wavering light accentuated the activity of the scene. The Rajah and a -few of the officials had disappeared into the palace; but it seemed as -if all the rest of the little army, together with a hundred attendants, -were crowded into the courtyard:—soldiers, slaves, eunuchs, page-boys, -villagers, and women,—women unveiled, unabashed, openly interested -in their fellow-creatures. Finally, in the portal of the north wing, -quiet, calm, betraying no sign of weariness, stood Ragunáth, the right -hand of the Rajah, that small, slender, well-favored man, with the eyes -of the lynx, an intellect keen as a steel blade, and a constitution -that was superior to time and disease. He was still clad in his crimson -riding-costume. The turban had not been lifted from his head; but he -carried in his hand a thin, ebony staff. He was engaged in directing -the dismount and disposal of the captives. Already those that had come -on foot had been led away by guards into the south wing; and now, under -his low-voiced commands, two men were lifting the riders from their -mules and, as soon as they could stand, sending them after the others. -One of these, only, made any resistance to this plan. He was the boy -who had ridden second in the line, behind his leader. Spent as he was, -this child struggled violently against separation from his master, at -whose commands only he finally consented to be led away. And now this -master remained alone, upon his mule, his face turned to Ragunáth, and -in his eyes the faintest expression of dislike. - -“What is thy name, captive?” demanded the Indian, in a flat, low tone. - -“Fidá Ibn-Mahmud Ibn-Hassan el-Asra,” returned the captive. - -“The son of the Mohammedan leader?” - -“His brother’s son.” - -“Ah! then you are not a prince?” - -“I am the head of our race. My father is dead.” - -“Ah!—Partha, let him be taken down and brought to my apartment. Then go -tell the Lord Rajah that the work is done.” And, turning upon his heel, -the minister disappeared into the corridor behind him. - -Immediately the two men beside him cut the thongs that bound Fidá’s -feet to the mule; and they also unfastened his arms. He was lifted -from the animal, and set upon his feet, at the same time supported on -either side. It was some moments before his numb and stiffened limbs -would bear him; but at length he straightened, and followed his guides -into the palace. They proceeded for some distance down a hall hung at -regular distances with finely wrought lamps, and at length turned into -a narrower passage that ended, Fidá could see, in another courtyard. -Before this was reached, however, they halted at a doorway closed by a -hanging; and here Fidá was bidden to enter and pass through into the -farthest room. Then he was left alone. - -The captive gave a sigh of relief. After the long strain, just ended, -silence and semi-darkness seemed to him unspeakable boons. He longed -to lie down here upon the ground and sleep. That being impossible, -however, he took the only practicable advantage of the respite. Facing -toward what he believed to be the west,—and Mecca,—he threw himself -into the devout attitude and repeated the sunset prayers. Then, -relieved in mind and heart, he pushed aside the hanging, and entered -the apartment of Ragunáth. The first room was empty, illumined by a -single lamp, the light of which gave some indication of the richness of -the furnishings. Through this and another room Fidá passed, and then -halted on the threshold of the third, the living-room of a fortunate -man. - -Here, reclining on a great pile of cushions, was the adviser and -confidant of the Rajah. Beside him, on a low stand, were a dish of rice -and a chased goblet containing wine. Two attendants were bathing his -feet with perfumed water; and at the opposite side of the room, under -a hideous image of Krishna, a Brahman was making the evening sacrifice -of meal and ghee, over two or three sticks of burning wood. Fidá forgot -himself in gazing at this scene, till Ragunáth, opening his eyes, which -were shut under the soothing influence of rest and quiet, cried out, -rather harshly: - -“Come! Enter, slave! To thy knees!” - -Fidá walked slowly forward, made a respectful salutation to the -master of the room, and then stood upright again. Ragunáth shrugged -his shoulders, but did not attempt to enforce his command, which was, -indeed, contrary to the etiquette of captivity, he being in no way -Fidá’s overlord. It was some moments before he would speak; and, during -the interval, the Brahman, his task over, turned to him, announcing: -“The evening Agnihotra is accomplished. Krishna and the gods are -appeased. I will depart,” and forthwith left the room. Then Ragunáth, -once more master of his tones, said smoothly: - -“You are here, Asra, to choose the life of your captivity. Will you -wait imprisoned and guarded till there come members of your race -to treat for ransom; or will you take the clothing of the Rajah’s -household and become the servant of our lord, his cup-bearer, till the -time of your freedom?” - -“Will not Rai-Khizar-Pál send messengers to treat with Omar for my -ransom?” cried Fidá, in amazement. - -“The way is long and difficult. We are but just returned from a -dangerous campaign. The Rajah is satisfied with his victories.” - -For some moments Fidá stared hopelessly at Ragunáth’s impenetrable -face. Then he bent his head beneath the tumultuous wave of bitterness -that overswept him. Finally, controlling himself, as all Arabs are -taught to do, he looked up again, and answered in an unnatural voice: -“I will enter the household of the Rajah. I will serve him as his -cup-bearer.” - -Ragunáth nodded, and touched a gong beside his couch. After a moment’s -waiting a slave ran into the room, knelt before his master, and bent -his head to the floor. - -“Radai, take this man to the house of slaves, and let him be clothed -in the fashion of the Rajah’s servants. He will serve to-night, at the -feast, as cup-bearer to the Lord Rai-Khizar-Pál. Go!” - -The slave rose, took Fidá by the hand, and turned to leave the room, -when they perceived that a newcomer was standing in the doorway: a -eunuch of high office. Ragunáth, seeing him, gave an exclamation. - -“Kasya! Enter! enter!” - -“My lord summoned me?” The man did not move from the doorway, and Fidá -and his companion stood aside. - -“Yes, yes, I summoned thee. How goes thy office? Enter, Kasya. All thy -work is well?” - -“The Lady Ahalya—is well.” - -The answer was made in such a tone as brought Fidá’s eyes to the face -of the man that uttered it. Kasya’s eyes were bright, Kasya’s lip was -curled, and Fidá perceived that the sarcasm, the almost insult, in the -eunuch’s tone had been fully intentional. In another moment Fidá was -drawn from the room, but not before he heard Ragunáth utter a smothered -oath, and had perceived a light of satisfaction in the eunuch’s eyes. -It was an incident unusual enough to impress itself on the mind of the -new-made slave; for he was sometimes a student of men. But there seemed -no adequate reason why one word, the name that Kasya had spoken, should -so have fixed itself in Fidá’s brain that, for the next hour or two, -it beat upon him with a constant rhythm, “Ahalya—Ahalya—Ahalya,” till -it seemed fuller of import than the great battle-cry the syllables of -which so much resembled it. And, in the end, Fidá accepted it as an -omen of all that afterward came upon him in this new land. - -In the meantime the whole palace, and especially the great central -portion of it, had been humming with life. Manava, the regent-minister, -and all his staff of servants, were preparing an unexpected welcome for -the return of the Rajah and his victorious troops. By half-past eight -in the evening, the vast audience-hall presented a gala appearance; and -shortly after that hour Rai-Khizar-Pál, with Purán on his right hand, -Ragunáth on his left, and a great company bringing up the rear, entered -and was received at the foot of the daïs by Manava, who, with this act -of reception, discharged himself of his three months’ regency. - -The hall, which was the largest in the palace, and opened immediately -from the central courtyard, was a remarkable example of the massive, -clumsy, and inartistic architecture of uninvaded India. Stone pillars, -of unequal size and design, supported the roof. The walls were covered -with multicolored hangings, and furthermore were to-night covered -with ropes of flowers. A hundred lamps of wrought bronze and silver -hung from the ceiling, and torches were fastened to the pillars. At -the head of the room, opposite the entrance, was the daïs, on which -stood a broad divan overhung with a canopy. This was the judgment seat -of Mandu, to be used to-night in a lighter cause. As the Rajah laid -himself in his place, the three high officials squatted on cushions -near the royal couch, each with a low, round stand before him. Below, -in the hall, stood three long, low tables, raised not more than eight -inches from the floor, beside which were rows of woven mats, on which -the feasters squatted in customary fashion. In three minutes every seat -was taken, and immediately a throng of slaves came hurrying in, each -bearing his burden of food or wine or metal bowls filled with water -for the washing of hands. Among these ministers of the feast was Fidá, -who came halting along in the rear, side by side with the young Ahmed, -now perfectly content by reason of the nearness of his lord. Fidá was -dressed in a loose white cotton vestment that hung to his ankles, and -was confined about his waist with a broad, red scarf. The sleeves were -wide and short, and the tunic opened loosely in the front, disclosing -his bare, bronzed chest. His feet were unshod; but his head was bound -round with a brass circlet, the sign of slavery. In his hands he -carried a jar of the liquor forbidden to his creed. As he neared the -royal divan many eyes were turned to him, and he was pointed out, here -and there, as a prince of the enemy; and if the feasters gazed at him -once for his station, they looked a second time at his beauty, for Fidá -was worthy of his birth. Taller in stature, better shaped as to limb, -cleaner-cut in feature than any Indian, he gave ample evidence of the -higher civilization and keener intellect of his race. For at this time -the men of Arabia were at the zenith of their power; and were bearing -the religion of their Prophet at the point of their swords into every -nation of the known world. - -Fidá went up and bent the knee before his master; and Rai-Khizar-Pál -turned upon him a gentle and kindly glance. “Come up, young man. Let me -behold thee. So. Thou art named master of my drink. Fill, then, this -cup, and Indra grant it may be full forever!” - -Fidá obeying this command, the Rajah lifted the golden vessel to his -lips, and instantly all those in the room sprang to their feet. He -drank deeply, replaced the cup on the stand before him, waved one hand -to his people, and the feast was opened. - -To Fidá, tired, dreary, and, above all, famishing with hunger, the -meal seemed endless. It was not, indeed, a refined sight to one -suffering as he suffered. Flagon after flagon of wine he poured into -the Rajah’s bowl, dish after dish of the richest food was presented -at the royal stand, mountain after mountain of meat, river on river -of drink, disappeared under the attacks of the feasters below; and -still there was no end. One man alone, of all the number, displayed -some fastidiousness in his taste. Ragunáth, after a moderate meal, -ceased to eat, and sat cross-legged on his cushion, silent, motionless, -oblivious, seemingly, of the sights and sounds around him: untempted by -any viand or wine to exceed his capacity. In spite of this fact Fidá -could not regard the man with admiration or even with respect. For to -the prejudiced eyes of the slave, delicacy in Ragunáth only assumed a -guise of affectation. - -Time went on, hours apparently had passed, and still Fidá’s -ministrations as cup-bearer showed no sign of diminishing. Finally, -however, relief came from an unexpected source. Kasya, the head eunuch, -whom Fidá had already seen, glided into the room through a small door -to the right of the daïs, connecting the audience hall with the Rajah’s -private apartments. Kasya knelt before Rai-Khizar and murmured a few -words which brought the royal master to his feet, exclaiming to those -near him: - -“Come, my friends, let us go. There is to be dancing.” - -Purán and Manava rose at once from their cushions, Ragunáth emerged -from his spell, and the three of them, with Kasya and one or two -slaves, followed the Rajah from the room, unnoticed by the rabble below. - -Fidá, to his infinite relief, found himself left behind. He realized, -indeed, that he was at the end of his endurance; and this fact made -him bold. Going to Ragunáth’s place, he sat down and set to work upon -the untouched food left there. Never had slave been so daring before; -but, also, never before had a meal been so direfully needed. As he -ate, he regarded the crowd below apprehensively; for he did not know -what discovery might bring. But the great feast was nearly at an end. -Half the company had gone straggling off to their beds. Of those that -remained, few were in condition to observe anything; and, to his -reassurance, Fidá presently perceived that slaves and servitors had -begun to slip into empty places, and to begin their part of the meal. -Among this number was Ahmed; and when presently the eyes of the two -met, Fidá nodded slightly, and the other came running to the daïs, and -stood before his master. - -“Sit here by me, and eat, Ahmed,” commanded the young man. - -“My lord! It is not fitting—” - -“Sit here. Am I not a slave also? There! Here is lamb roasted with -cinnamon and stuffed with raisins and sugar. Excellent! Eat of it. And -this is deer flesh. And here is sesame, and rice, and a duck fried in -oil. They do not starve in Mandu; but I have seen no water in this -room.” - -“I will fetch it!” and Ahmed darted away, to return presently with the -prescribed liquid in a large, porous bottle. - -Fidá drank gratefully, and then the two ate in silence, while below -them, minute by minute, the great hall grew quieter. The meal was -almost finished, and Fidá was smiling at the contentment of his devoted -little servitor, when suddenly a eunuch came running through the -Rajah’s door, and, seeing Fidá seated tranquilly on the daïs, gave him -a violent cuff on the head, crying out: - -“Dog! Leave thy gluttony and come to the King. He calls for his -‘cup-bearer’.—Faithful cup-bearer thou! Come!” - -At the blow, both Mohammedans leaped to their feet; and the Asra stared -upon the eunuch, his face flaming with anger. Ahmed, indeed, would -have thrown himself upon the man, but that Fidá fortunately regained -his temper, and, restraining the lad’s arm, bent his head before the -messenger, and with a slight smile at Ahmed’s outraged expression, -followed his guide from the room. - -They passed through a hallway more richly furnished than any Fidá -himself had ever seen; and then, crossing a corridor, turned down -a narrow passage into the open doorway of the “theatre”—a large, -irregular room, with a slightly elevated platform at one end, and the -usual daïs at the other. - -The place was brilliantly lighted. Rai-Khizar-Pál lay upon a divan; and -disposed about him were his usual companions, together with one or two -new officials, and a dozen or more slaves, who crouched back in the -shadow of the hangings. In one corner of the room, below the stage, -sat three musicians, playing, upon their strange-shaped instruments, -a rhythmical minor air. The stage was occupied by six nautch-dancers, -gayly and scantily clad, of their type good-looking, perhaps. They were -performing a dance with which Fidá was familiar enough, having seen it -many times at Delhi. It was called the “serpent”, and appeared to be -highly acceptable to the spectators. The Rajah was laughing and talking -genially, and even Ragunáth’s face wore a smile. At the entrance of -Fidá, Rai-Khizar called him to the couch and good-naturedly abused him -for deserting his post. The Arab offered no excuse, and was finally -ordered to his task of pouring wine. Cups and jar stood close at hand; -and from time to time the whole company drank a toast to some favorite -performer. Fidá, refreshed by food and encouraged by the leniency of -his master, watched the stage with some interest. In the course of an -hour many dancers came and went. There were sometimes six, again two, -occasionally one, on the stage; and all the time the low, droning, -monotonous music never ceased. - -In time the audience began to grow drowsy under the effects of light, -wine, and unceasing sound. Rai-Khizar had nodded on his pillows, and -Ragunáth yawned openly. By and by all the dancers left the stage, and -the musicians’ tune died away. The Rajah started up, demanding to know -why the dance stopped without his command. But, while he spoke, the -music began again, this time with a different air, a swinging, graceful -melody, new to its hearers. A little murmur of approval came from -Manava and Purán. The rest waited. Then Fidá, his curiosity awakened, -saw a woman run on to the stage:—a woman fair-skinned, dark-eyed, with -a wreath of poppies woven into her hair, and garments of scarlet gauze -flying about her slender, beautifully shaped figure. For an instant he -shut his eyes; and, before he could open them again, there burst from -two throats the same hoarse cry: - -“Ahalya!” - -Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth together had started to their feet; but -she who danced only smiled and half lowered the lids of her dark and -lustrous eyes. - -“Ahalya!” shouted the Rajah, in a frenzy of excitement. “Ahalya! Get -thee from this room! How darest thou appear—in this place? Kasya—take -her away!” - -As the enormity of his wife’s offence grew upon him, Rai-Khizar’s wrath -waxed hotter till he stood panting with emotion as Kasya dashed upon -the stage. Ragunáth, entirely forgetting himself, stood still, gazing -upon the charming figure of the young woman, with a light in his eyes -that was all too easy to read. Of the rest, slaves and officials alike -watched the scene with impartial interest, all but Fidá, who, even -after Ahalya, rebellious and laughing at her escapade, had left the -room, still crouched in the shadow of the canopy, the blood pounding -at his temples, his heart literally standing still, his brilliant eyes -staring as at the vision of the wonderful red and white beauty of -Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu in Malwa. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - THE INCEPTION OF A FLAME - - -Fidá slept that night on a divan in an antechamber of the Rajah’s -suite, instead of in his lawful place, the house of slaves behind -the palace. This breach of duty came about simply enough. After the -tumultuous breaking-up of the party in the theatre, the slaves in -attendance on the Rajah and his officials seized the opportunity for -retiring, and disappeared with such quiet zeal that, three minutes -after Ahalya’s departure from the stage, Fidá found himself alone -on the daïs in the empty room. Rai-Khizar had rushed away to his -delinquent wife; and the officials, tired out, lost no time in betaking -themselves to their own apartments. Fidá was perfectly well aware of -the situation of the house of slaves. He had dressed there in the early -evening. But the Asra had no intention of passing the night in that -uninviting spot if it could be helped. After a moment’s consideration, -therefore, he left the theatre and wandered through the tangled web of -little rooms constituting the royal suite, till he came upon one room -which promised comparative safety for the night. It was unlighted. He -believed it to be out of the way of the more inhabited part. And all -round it ran a divan well covered with cushions. So, without stopping -to consider consequences, Fidá lay down upon the pleasant couch, buried -his tired head in a pillow, and in five minutes was sleeping the sleep -of the slave. - -He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light; -secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily -still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened -his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he -stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The -first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of -morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that -streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through -the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began the -_Niyyat_, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his -lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except -the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the -first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he -had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he -had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode, -strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he -was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also -to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had -seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men. - -Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he had begun them. He was -standing with eyes cast down, repeating the _Subhán_: - - “Holiness to thee, O God! - And praise be to thee! - Great is thy name, - Great is thy greatness; - There is no deity but thee!” - -when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words -were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror. - -So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of -abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some -mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s -expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly: - -“What is it thou doest here, Asra?” - -Fidá bent his head. “Mighty lord, I prayed.” - -The Rajah smiled slightly, lifted one of his hands to the curtain -beside him, grasped it, and settled into an easier position. “Thou art -not a good servant, Asra,” he observed at last. - -“It has not hitherto been my place to serve, O King.” - -There was another pause, while the Rajah’s eyes travelled around the -room. “Thou hast slept here?” - -“Yes.” - -“And why? Knowest thou not the house of slaves?” - -For a second Fidá hesitated. Then he answered, “Too well I knew it, -Lord Rajah.” - -“What sayest thou?” - -“Thou, O King—wouldst thou lie among the base born?” - -“_I!_—I am Kshatriya! Among you there is no caste.” - -“There is pride.” - -Rai-Khizar laughed. “Thou’st a tongue, slave. It were my duty to have -thee whipped. But this day is a day devoted to the gods. Begone, then. -Get thee a morning meal and wait for a message from me. Yet remember -this, my Asra: here there is no prince but me. If thou anger me, I -shall have thee killed.” - -“You dare not!” rose to Fidá’s lips, but he checked the words; for it -was indeed time that he learned his place. And he stood with lowered -head as the Rajah turned away and left him. - -This encounter strongly affected Fidá’s state of mind. Reconsidering -the conversation, he perceived that he stood the debtor of the man -whose slave he had become—an infidel dog, a worshipper of images and -Jinn. It could not be denied that Rai-Khizar’s toleration was greater -than that of any Arab chief; and Fidá felt bitterly the humiliation of -his leniency. Yet in all the Rajah’s mildness there had been a dignity -that inspired in the Mohammedan an unwilling admiration and respect. - -Perfunctorily, Fidá finished his prayers, and then acted upon the first -of the two commands of his master:—he left the palace in search of -food. It was some time, however, before he found it, and then only in -the house of slaves, where a number of his fellows were beginning the -morning meal. Among them was Ahmed, who sat a little apart from the -chattering herd, apparently watching for some one. At sight of Fidá he -rose eagerly and ran forward, greeting him with marks of respect which -the Asra reproved. Then the boy led the way into the interior of the -dirty, barren house, in the centre of which was a wood fire, overhung -by a large iron pot filled with a bubbling mass of millet. Near by, on -a stand, was an immense bowl of clarified butter, or “ghee”, which, -mixed with the meal, formed the staple as well as the sacrificial food -of the low-caste Hindoo throughout India. Fidá waited in silence while -Ahmed handily procured him a dish of the none too appetizing mess. And -then, eager to escape the vile and smoky air of the interior, the two -hurried out into the shaded veranda, while the other slaves were eating. - -It was now a not unpleasant scene that the captives looked upon. The -day was hot, gay with sunshine and the chatter of birds, sweet with the -perfume of the jessamine vines, which were still covered with flowers. -The slave-house faced the angle of the palace formed by the juncture -of the central building and the south wing. Directly opposite them -was a long, wooden-pillared arcade called the veranda, running the -length of the wing. It was covered with flowering vines, and furnished -like a great room, with cushions and stands and hangings in place of -more customary frescoes. In the end that faced the central courtyard, -invisible from without, was a temple room, the priests of which seemed -to spend the greater part of their lives lounging on mats in the -fragrant veranda. In this same side of the palace lodged Manava’s suite -and Purán’s; and at the end of all was a wooden barracks, where the -soldiers were now just waking from the sleep induced by last night’s -festivity. A group of these hung about the well, which stood between -the house of slaves and their domicile, waiting their turn for water. -There was a general splashing and shouting, little laughter, but also -no swearing, for the Hindoo is always clean-mouthed. - -From their vantage-point, Ahmed and Fidá, observing this life, found -themselves entertained; for all the human nature of the palace -found vent here. The two captives lingered over their meal, talking -generally; and presently Fidá remarked on the number of slaves who had -been passing and repassing near them. Ahmed answered him at once: - -“There are more than three hundred employed here—including eunuchs, who -do not sleep in this house. I have been made a sweeper. This morning -the slave-master, Kanava, roused me at dawn, gave me a broom of dried -kusa grass and sent me, with nine others, to sweep the corridors of the -north wing.” - -“Then thou hast had little enough sleep. Go, therefore, lie down and -rest while I sit here. By my life, I would I knew what my duties are to -be. No one orders me about. I am given no instructions. I have not even -seen this Kanava.” - -“Ah, dear lord, to think that thou must serve! He—Look. There is a stir -opposite.” - -Two slaves had entered the veranda of the south wing, and went running -down it, shouting, as they went, some unintelligible words. At the -sound, men came pouring out of the interior rooms, and turned in the -direction of the courtyard, whither, in a moment or two, there moved a -long procession of priests, soldiers, and petty officials. The last of -these had not yet disappeared when every rear doorway and opening in -the main building near by began to let forth slaves, who came toward -their particular house in a straggling group of almost two hundred. - -“It is a big sacrifice,” observed Fidá, who was familiar enough with -Indian customs to know that no Sudra can participate in the service of -the gods. - -“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great -altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be -an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an -enclosure there when I passed through.” - -“The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be -in honor of victory.” - -Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out -of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is -Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face, -marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered -doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere. -His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head -was of beaten silver. At his appearance the clamor in the slave-house -suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated, -his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and -shouted: - -“Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!” - -Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and -stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and -the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though -he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was -now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side. - -As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose. -But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So -in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the -audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity, -and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a -word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a -remarkable scene. - -He had but an instant’s view of the thing in its entirety:—a vast, -close-packed sea of people, garlanded, decked, nay robed, in the -brightest flowers; in the centre of the living mass a high, square -altar, piled with firewood; and surrounding the altar, ranged in -symmetrical order, twelve sacred cows, twelve accompanying priests, -and twelve huge, earthen jars. All this Fidá took in at one, swift -glance. The next instant a universal shout arose, and he was seized and -drawn through the crowd, which opened for him, by two young Brahmans, -naked except for loin-cloths and the sacred cord. In a moment Fidá -was beside the altar, where stood the Rajah, flaming with jewels, and -Ragunáth, scarcely less magnificent. Here, without a moment’s delay, -the bewildered captive was taken in hand by two snatakas, and bound, -hand and foot, with ropes. Then, as at some signal, the twelve priests -began to chant those verses of the Rig-Veda that are designed for the -great Srahda sacrifice. The crowd was silent now. There was not a -whisper; there was scarcely a movement among them all. The twelve gray -cows stood, as if long accustomed to such sights, mildly surveying -the people. Fidá felt himself like them. He was stunned into perfect -tranquillity. His eyes wandered aimlessly; he listened without interest -to the words of the chant. He counted the number of flowers in the -garland round the neck of the nearest cow. And all the time his mind -was really circling about one idea, too horrible to be faced. For he -had no doubt that he was to be the first offering in that triumphal -sacrifice. This was the reason for Ragunáth’s evasion about his ransom. -This was the explanation of Rai-Khizar’s mildness. Fidá looked toward -the Rajah, whose eyes were fixed reverently on the ground. The next -instant, however, he had caught Ragunáth’s glance, and the minister -was smiling at him—a small, cruel, white-toothed smile, a smile like -a grimace, that sent a sudden bolt through Fidá’s heart. Ragunáth -could smile upon him in his death-hour! In that moment hatred was born -in the Arab:—a hatred for this man, which, through all their future -intercourse, never lessened and was never still. - -At length the chant came to an end. Fidá felt a breath of relief; for -self-control was becoming difficult. Now, at last, he was seized by the -stalwart young Brahmans and lifted, like a log of wood, up and up till -he was laid on his back on top of the great heap of unlit firewood. -A hoarse shout went up from the people gathered below. Fidá’s heart -throbbed to suffocation. His hair was literally rising on his head; but -he made no movement, nor did he utter any sound. Even in his horror he -remembered the behavior of women enduring the suttee, and the memory -shamed him into stillness. Under the fierce rays of the sun, now in -mid-sky, he closed his eyes and waited—waited for the first crackling -flame to leap upon his flesh. Evidently the time for this had not yet -come. Again the priests were praying those endless, senseless, Vedic -prayers, to Indra, to Vishnu, to Agni—Agni, the fire-god. How long -he lay upon the pyre Fidá did not know. It was at once a century and -a second. Then the voices of the priests were still. Once more he -was seized by the head and the feet and lifted to the ground. There -his ropes were cut. He was free again. Trembling and faint, he found -himself facing the King’s minister, who was smiling at him still. - -“The captive did not know,” he murmured, “that our sacrifices are -bloodless.” - -Fidá felt himself redden, and the next instant met the eyes of the -Rajah, who was staring at him in amazement: “Knew you not? told they -you not? Didst fear such a death? It was a needless fear. Human blood -stains not the altars of our gods. You, the foremost of our captives, -were laid upon the altar of Indra as a sign that we attribute all our -victories to him. That ceremony is over. You are free to depart from -the sacrifice.” And, with a friendly gesture, the Rajah turned away -again, and Fidá knew himself dismissed. - -It was not now so easy a task to force his way through the dense -crowd; for this time they did not voluntarily make way for him. He was -fiercely possessed with the desire, however, to escape from this mob -who had been unconscious witnesses of what he felt to be his cowardice. -And, after a persistent pushing and edging, he found himself beyond -the people and in front of that doorway where he had dismounted the -night before. Here Ragunáth had stood and watched him, but had not then -read his soul; or, if he had, had found there nothing of which an Asra -might be ashamed. Now!—Coward or not, that Asra was leaning up against -the palace wall, gone very faint, even his knees trembling with the -reaction of a strain that had been greater than he realized. - -He remained standing here for a long time, regaining command of -himself, and, afterward, attracted by the spectacle before him. The -wood on the altar had been lighted, and a hot, wavering flame leaped -high in the centre of the garland-strewn multitude. Into this fire went -the contents of the jars that had stood at the base of the altar:—four -of fine, ground meal, four of ghee, and four of strained honey. From -this sacrificial mess arose a thick smoke; but the odor that came from -it was, surprisingly enough, decidedly agreeable; for the meal and -butter had been so skilfully treated with aromatics that the natural -smell of burning vegetable and grease had been overcome. The sacrifice -was of course accompanied by a continuous high and musical chant from -the priests. Chapter after chapter of the Vedas they repeated without -halt or break. Prayers were sent up to every Vedic god: to Vishvakarma, -the all-maker, to Varuna and Mitra, to Agni, to Surya, to Yama, to -the Ashvins, brothers of dawn and twilight, to Rudra, the storm-god, -and Vivasat, the father of death. The sacred cattle were offered to -Prishni, the holy cow of heaven; and, their spirits being accepted -by a sign in the flame, they were led away to resume their duties in -the great temple at the other end of the plateau. Finally, at the -conclusion of the ceremony, the last god was introduced: he who, for -many centuries, had played the great rôle in this ceremonial: Soma, -lord of the moon, and lord of drunkennesses, whose name is that of the -plant from which the powerful, sacred liquor is distilled. And at the -first pronouncing of this name, the sacrifice was interrupted by the -arrival of fifty slaves, who made their appearance from the great hall, -bearing on their heads jars of the liquid to be quaffed to the great -ones above. They were greeted by a long, loud murmur of anticipatory -joy, such as no lavish display of meal or cattle could ever call forth -from the crowd. And now at last Fidá, too well aware of what was to -follow, turned from the courtyard down the corridor through which he -had passed on the previous night, on his way to Ragunáth’s rooms. - -He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was -refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of -the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive -a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of -miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible -safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing -a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage -that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that -it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court. -Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the -edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every -side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun -with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small -tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a -little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the -corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike, -pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of -unfamiliar delight. - -As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened, -and out upon the veranda, and thence into the court, came a young -woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a -striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with -purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she -hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a -dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced -the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál. -She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon. -As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as -one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling -this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood -gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim, -and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while, -reminiscently. - -Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled -out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again, -uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by -walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam -before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a -slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of -woman could she be! - -“Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her -unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the -slave’s senses swim anew. - -“My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—” -he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added -involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!” - -The girl started slightly; but she did not move while he looked at her, -her white face, her deep, heavy-lidded eyes with their long, black -fringes, and the slender white throat left uncovered by her dress. -Presently she spoke again, more timidly: “Thou’rt a captive—brought -home from war by my lord?” - -“I am a captive. I am the slave of thy lord. May Allah pity me!” And -this last was drawn from him not by the thought of his captivity, but -by the sight of her surpassing loveliness. - -Ahalya’s expression softened and grew wistful. “I am a captive too,” -she said. “I was born in Iran.” - -“The land of roses! I have been in Iran. We passed through it on our -long march from Yemen. And we rested in Teheran, where our people have -made treaties with the Shah.” - -He hoped to see her eyes brighten when he spoke of her country. But -she only gazed dreamily beyond him and answered: “I do not remember -it—Teheran. I was a baby when my mother brought me into this land. She -was in the house of the King of Dhár, and from there I was married to -the King of Mandu.—But thou must go, Asra! Thou’lt be—killed if they -find thee here.” - -“Nay, lady!” Fidá suddenly fell upon one knee. “Let me stay but another -moment. Thou—thou hast made captivity so fair to me!” - -“Hush, Asra! Go quickly. Indeed, indeed, I would not have thee harmed.” - -She drew back from him, and he, coming suddenly to his senses, rose and -turned away. Yet before he reached the doorway he had twice looked back -at her, and each time found her facing him, her great eyes shining, a -half smile trembling round her lips. - -Fidá reached the corridor on fire. It was as if he had been drinking -Soma. His blood raced in his veins. His heart pounded. His hands -were cold. Yet he was not too much distraught to hear the sound of -some one approaching in the corridor; and, with a quick sense of -self-protection, he slipped into the nearest doorway, and concealed -himself behind the hangings of Ragunáth’s antechamber. - -The newcomer had come down the passage; and Fidá, peering cautiously -out, perceived, with a start, that it was Ragunáth who was -approaching—Ragunáth, the mild, the temperate, who had left the Soma -sacrifice and come hither alone, to seek—quiet? To Fidá’s surprise and -momentary relief, he passed his own doorway, and went on toward the -little courtyard. And now the slave, suddenly forgetting himself in his -interest in the movements of the man he hated, stepped full into the -passage and watched. In the courtyard Ahalya was still seated beside -the fountain; but at sight of Ragunáth she rose hastily. - -“She was here to watch for him!” thought Fidá; and he clenched his -hands at the thought. - -Ragunáth went up to the princess and bowed before her as profoundly as -Fidá himself had bowed. Evidently, at the same time, he spoke. Ahalya, -however, began at once to move backward, away from him, he following -her by degrees, till they had proceeded clear across the court. And -then, suddenly, at the veranda step, the young woman turned around, and -literally ran into the women’s apartments, whither none could follow -her. - -Ragunáth would be coming back now, and Fidá perceived the necessity for -a quick escape. In a moment or two he was back in the broad corridor; -and, looking round the angle into the passage, saw Ragunáth come slowly -in from the court and enter his own rooms. From the man’s walk Fidá -read enough to satisfy him. “She was not waiting,” he thought; and -at the idea his spirits rose dizzily. Yet, after all, in this last -pleasant surmise he was wrong. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - AHALYA - - -Short of breath, flushed of face, and discomposed in temper, the Ranee -Ahalya entered her day-room after the brief interview with Ragunáth. -As she appeared, a girl, who sat on some cushions at the side of the -room, working at a piece of embroidery, rose and bowed, and then asked -eagerly: - -“Did he come?” - -Ahalya flung herself down on the broad divan that ran across the end -of the room under the screened windows. “Yes, he came,” she said, -petulantly. Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added: “I hate him, -Neila.” - -“Did he—what did he say?” asked the handmaid, forgetting her work as -she watched her mistress. - -“I don’t know what he said. How should I? I did not think of him. But I -think he dishonors the gods. They were all at sacrifice, and he stole -away because he does not like Soma. Nor is it good,” she added, with a -touch of sympathy. - -“But he is a man, and should have a man’s tastes.” - -Ahalya shrugged her shoulders, and the two of them were silent for a -few minutes, Neila waiting patiently for the mystery that she knew her -lady would reveal—in time. Presently, indeed, the Ranee began to speak, -in a low, reflective tone as if she were merely thinking aloud. “In -all those months when my lord and the rest were away, fighting, I have -thought many times of Ragunáth, who was kind to me at my first coming -here. I thought I should be happy when he came again. I wanted him to -come. And oh, Neila, thou knowest the days have been long and lonely, -and I have been sick for Dhár and for my mother. My lord is very tender -of me, and I know that he is good. But he is not young and beautiful -to look on. His eyes are not bright nor do his lips smile when he sees -me. And Ragunáth seemed younger and more in love with life. Last night, -when I danced the poppy dance, it was for him. But, Neila, I have -perceived that he is not a man. He makes me think of a snake, with his -shiny eyes and his long, still hands. He does not burn with an honest -fire.—Ugh, I hate him! So will I tell my lord.” - -“Thou wilt not, Lady Ahalya! Thou darest not tell the Rajah you have -seen this man! We should all be killed!” Neila sprang to her feet, her -work dropping unheeded, while she stared at her mistress, who lay, -hands clasped above her head, staring off into space, nor gave the -slightest heed to her companion’s fear. Thus Neila presently returned -to her place and took up her work again, not without anxiety in her -eyes; for the service of the youngest wife of the Lord of Mandu was, -to say the least, no monotonous life. Ahalya was as erratic and as -reckless as an existence of stifled loneliness can make a young, -brilliant, and impulsive nature. And this very careless openness, -mingled as it was with a singularly pure and unsuspicious nature, had -won a place for her with every one, from the King of Mandu down to the -humblest eunuch of the zenana. She was even tolerated by Malati, the -oldest wife, who had been born a Brahman. And than this nothing more -can be said. - -For some moments Ahalya continued to smile into space; which smile, -considering her just-avowed aversion to Ragunáth, Neila was decidedly -at a loss to interpret. Then Ahalya asked: - -“Neila, have any of the slaves told thee anything concerning the -captives brought home in the Rajah’s train?” - -“Yes, Kasya spoke to me of one of them, who has been made the King’s -cup-bearer. He presumes greatly on his station; for last night he would -not even sleep in the slave-house, but lay on the divan in one of the -Rajah’s antechambers, sleeping like a god. This man was a prince of his -race:—At—Ak—I cannot remember—” - -“Asra,” put in Ahalya, quietly. - -“Asra! ’Tis that!” - -Ahalya sat suddenly up and leaned forward a little. “Kasya told you -this! Said he more? What will they do with him? Will he be ransomed?” - -“The captive, madam?” Neila, so used to her mistress’s whims, was still -surprised at this one. “I do not know what they will do with him. Kasya -did not tell me. He was offered on Indra’s altar to-day—being by birth -Kshatriya, and the chief of the captives.” - -“Yes. He is a prince. Neila, I have seen this man.” - -“Seen him! Oh, Ranee, Ranee, be careful! Why, he is a slave! If he were -seen speaking with thee—they would burn him!” - -Ahalya laughed joyously. “None saw him but me. He came before Ragunáth. -And, Neila, he told me a strange thing. He said: ‘I come from Yemen; -and my race is the race of Asra, who must die if they cherish love!’ -What could he mean by that? To die because one loved! I should not die, -I think. Neila, Neila, _he_ was young, and his eyes shone. Neila! -I am lonely! Go bring to me the young Bhavani. Say to him that I will -tell him the tale he loves most to hear: of Prince Arjuna and the great -bow and the beautiful Princess Draupadi.” Ahalya smiled. “Go tell him, -Neila, and put away that endless work of thine.” - -Obediently the girl rose, left her embroidery lying on the cushions, -and went out of the room. When she was gone, Ahalya stretched herself -still more lazily on her divan, closed her eyes to the light, and, -as if she saw with her mind things more beautiful than real, smiled -slightly, and began to sing the swaying melody of the poppy dance. -About her was a perfect stillness. Not a sound, not so much as the -tones of women’s voices from the interior of the zenana, penetrated to -her solitude. Perhaps her reverie was broken by the silence, but she -only smiled the more; for it had come to be an uncanny habit with her -to smile through her loneliest and saddest hours. Only at those rare -times when joy or interest lifted her out of herself did her face show -all the strength and purity of its melancholy beauty. Her heritage from -her mother was a self-defence of constant concealment, and a kind of -inward cynicism, which, never revealed on the surface, was nevertheless -constantly nourished and strengthened by the many humiliations of her -existence. Just now she was considering her performance of the evening -before, and the results of it, when, after she had left the theatre, -her lord had come to her in great anger, expecting tears, repentance, -and abasement from her, and had got only petulance, rebellion, and -remorseless laughter, so that finally, worked into a fierce rage, -he had left her alone to wake to a realization of her offence. This -realization had by no means come; and she fully expected the Rajah to -appear before her that evening humbly craving favor; for experience -had taught her that she need never be the first to surrender. -Rai-Khizar-Pál loved her far more dearly than she, unhappy child, -cared for him, grave, honorable, and just as he was; and it was to her -carelessness of favor and the consummate skill with which she let that -carelessness be known, that the Lady Ahalya owed the favoritism she -enjoyed and the rooms she lived in. - -These rooms were the choicest in the zenana. They consisted of a tiny -suite of three, opening from a passage that led directly into the main -palace. The first of them was an antechamber, heavily spread with -rugs, walled with carved wood brought from Ceylon, and lighted day and -night by a single crimson lamp suspended from the ceiling. The second -room, in which Ahalya now lay, was a light and pleasant place, its -floors covered with silken rugs, the walls frescoed gayly with birds -and flowers, the furniture and the thousand ornaments it contained all -of the costliest variety, and, at the end farthest from the windows, -a little shrine to Rahda, the Lady of Love. The last room, accessible -only through the other two, was the sleeping-room, its walls hidden by -silken hangings of pale purple and gold; its couch covered with cloth -of gold; the chests to hold the Ranee’s garments, of precious woods -inlaid with ivory and pearl, lined with sandal-wood; and teak-wood -toiletstands displaying mirrors, brushes, perfumes, and cosmetics -wherewith a woman might be beautified:—a heavily gilded room indeed, -and one in which Ahalya spent little time. - -Beyond these apartments of the favorite wife, across the whole length -of this inner palace wing, stretched a long, narrow room, furnished -with every luxury that Indian ingenuity could devise. This was the -women’s day-room,—their common lounging-place,—where wife and slave -met together in free converse. Around it were ranged the rooms of the -other wives: Malati’s, where the young Bhavani, Rai-Khizar-Pál’s only -son, the heir of Mandu, lodged with his mother; Bhimeg’s the Kshatriya -woman’s; and those of Chundoor, the despised Sudra wife. At the end of -the wing, farthest from the palace, lived the women slaves; and beyond -was a separate house for the eunuchs. Such was the zenana, in the days -of Indian rule in Mandu: a place full of life and color and sound; of -interminable jealousy, strife, and bitterness; a place which only one -man ever entered; he on whom all these women must expend the human love -and fidelity that lay seething in their hearts. - -In the meantime, to Ahalya, waiting on her couch, came Neila, bringing -with her a lad ten years old, shaggy-headed, with big, black eyes, -and a sturdy figure, who went up and kissed the Ranee affectionately. -His eyes were bright with excitement as he cried to her: “Alaha! -Alaha!” (it was his name for her), “I have been riding to-day! Kasya -put me upon a horse, and we went almost to the old temple and back. -And—and I am to go every day now!” Trained studiously to the dignity -of his birth, he gave little active sign of his pleasure; but his face -expressed his delight, and Ahalya, more demonstrative than he, threw -her arms about him and laughed in sympathy. - -“Beautiful, Bhavani! Beautiful! Now thou wilt soon be given a bow; and -then—” - -“Then I shall really go and contend in the games before the beautiful -Draupadi!” - -“Yes. Shall we play it now? You will be Arjuna, and these cushions your -horse. Pile them up! Pile them up!” - -“Yes, and you are Draupadi, there on the divan, and I will ride before -you and contend with—with—” - -“Neila!” cried Ahalya: “Neila! Where are you? There,” as the girl came -in at the door, “Neila, if you please, you are all the other princes -contending for my hand in the royal games. You are four of the sons of -Pandu, and the hundred sons of Hastinapura, and—” - -“And I am to wrestle with you, and shoot you, and kill all of you, -Neila! And it will be splendid!” - -And, Neila smilingly consenting to the slaughter, the game began. For -half an hour the contest raged fiercely; and finally Ahalya herself -came down from her throne to be killed by the all-conquering one. But -at last, when the little room looked as if a devastating army had -passed through it, the sport came to an end, and Ahalya and the little -boy sat down together to rest, while the untiring Neila began the task -of setting things to rights. It was then that Ahalya’s turn came, and -she lost no time in beginning:— - -“Bhavani, hast seen thy father to-day?” - -“Yes! Oh, yes! He left the Soma sacrifice to see me ride!” - -“Was he—was he in a glad humor? Asked he of me?” - -Neila paused in her labors to hear the answer to this question. - -“He was very glad and gay. He gave me a piece of silver for sitting -straight on my horse. But—dear ’Laha, I think he did not ask for you.” - -“And said he naught of any one else?” - -“Of whom? Oh, but he just talked about me, and my riding, and how in a -few years I should go to war with him.” - -Ahalya laughed, but not with her eyes. “Well, I am tired now. I am -going to sleep, Bhavani. Therefore run away. See what a mess we have -made of the room! Run away.” - -“But—I may come again soon, to play Arjuna?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“To-morrow?” wistfully. - -“Yes. But go now, Bhavani.” - -Obediently and reluctantly, Bhavani went. - -When he was gone, Neila and Ahalya found themselves looking at each -other intently. “He will surely come this evening,” said the slave. “He -cannot stay away longer.” - -Ahalya flushed and frowned. “I do not want him to come,” she said. “I -am tired. I am going to sleep now. Do not wake me till the evening -meal is ready.” And the Ranee forthwith disappeared into her bedroom, -pulling the purple hangings across the doorway behind her so that Neila -could not see, as she lay on her bed, whether she slept or not. - -Rai-Khizar-Pál did not come that evening, nor the next day, nor the -next. And by the third afternoon Ahalya was secretly very anxious. -Nothing ever went unknown for twenty-four hours in the zenana: that -place whose inmates had nothing to do all day long but discuss each -other; and for two days now nothing had been talked of in the common -day-room but the favorite’s fall from favor. The Lord Rajah had been -at home from his campaign nearly four days and had seen Ahalya in -that time only once! Glory to Krishna! Who would get her place? On -the afternoon of the fourth day Ahalya, braving the worst, appeared -in the day-room. The chill of humiliation that met her was expected, -but none the less hard to endure. Malati, when profoundly saluted, -set the example for the room by barely noticing the Ranee. The very -slave-girls laughed at her as she passed them; and only Chundoor, the -Sudra woman, offered to make room for her. Ahalya, however, had not yet -come to passing a whole morning with a person of low caste; nor yet was -she to be driven from the day-room because Rai-Khizar-Pál was offended -with her for the poppy dance. After her one bow to Malati, who, as -oldest wife, was entitled to it, she walked once round the room, -leisurely chose out a pile of cushions apart from the general groups, -settled herself with inimitable, lazy grace, despatched one eunuch for -sweetened rose-water, commanded another to fan her, gave orders to -three or four more, and, when she had made herself important enough, -caused Neila to bring in a tray of toilet articles and begin to shape -and polish her nails. While Neila worked, she lay perfectly still, -surveying the company near by in a supercilious manner, and giving her -rivals ample opportunity to realize that, try as they would, not one of -them could ever approach her in beauty, in grace, or in charm. - -By this time the whole room was in a ferment of disdain and concealed -envy. Suddenly, as if the excitement had not been already great enough -for one morning, Rai-Khizar-Pál appeared on the threshold, and looked -eagerly down the room. Every head was turned to him: Ahalya’s too, but -leisurely, and with an indifference that was noticeable. Scarcely did -she take the trouble to lift her eyelids, as the Rajah came slowly -forward. Her husband’s eyes were busy, however, during his ceremonious -progress; and he read a deal of history in that walk. It would have -been impossible for him not to have made the comparison between Ahalya -and those from whom she had so studiously withdrawn herself. Beside -their dark, heavy, sensual faces, hers, in its clear-cut, Persian -fairness, stood out as a rose among thistles, as gold beside brass. -This morning, after three days without her, the Rajah appreciated her -more keenly than usual; and, before her indifference, his displeasure -melted like mist in the sun. Stopping to speak with no one else, -he went to her, amid a sensible but scarcely audible murmur of -disappointment. Ahalya looked up only when he bent over her; but she -smiled at him for greeting, and he asked nothing better. - -“My lotus-flower! My heart’s delight!” he said, gazing thirstily at -her fair face. “Ahalya! Thou wilt dance no more nautch dances at the -theatre?” - -For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then, because she had had enough -of playing for the time, she answered, truthfully enough: “Nay, lord. -I—am sorry that I danced the poppy dance.” - -Rai-Khizar longed to take her in his arms; but this, in the face of all -the zenana, even he scarcely ventured to do. So, bending low over her, -he whispered: - -“In two hours come to the marble bath, and we will eat together, alone, -by the fountain there. Make thyself beautiful for me, rose of Iran!—my -treasure!—my child!” Then, with the smile that he gave only to her, the -Rajah turned away, and left the room without speaking to any other in -it. - -Ten minutes after he had gone Ahalya also departed, running the new -gantlet of hurt and angry glances with less indifference than she had -borne her humiliation an hour before. Her pride served her well in -trouble; but ill-natured jealousy always cut her to the quick; and she -had found but light armor against it. - -Returning to her own room, she bathed, and let Neila dress her as the -Rajah commanded. Her garments were silken tissues of palest pink, -delicate as rose-petals. Her waist was girdled with gold and pearls; -and her hair braided and bound up with golden threads. When Neila -had finished her she was a picture, and she knew it, perhaps, though -she took small delight in it; for the unexpressed thought in her -heart was that she would have matched her raiment with her love; and -Rai-Khizar-Pál she loved as a father, as a venerable and powerful man; -her master, but never the lord of her heart. - -The Rajah, however, was waiting her coming with very different -feelings; for he loved Ahalya as most men love only in early youth. -His delight in her was out of all proportion to his reserved and -conservative nature. On her he lavished the wealth of his treasury. -For her he would have sacrificed, without a thought, every other woman -in his zenana. And while her escapades and her insubordination never -failed to startle and hurt him, they only served, in the end, to bind -her more strongly to him by the chains of fascination and elusiveness. - -The place where the two were to sup together was the Rajah’s favorite -retreat:—an open-roofed, white-colonnaded room, in the centre of which -was a broad, marble bathing-pool. Beside the water grew grasses and -flowers, carefully tended; and near at hand, on the marble pavement, -were piles of cushions, low stands, and all the articles of Oriental -furniture necessary to a retreat where even slaves were not allowed -to come without command. By night the marble terrace was lighted with -lamps placed on stands; and now, in a soft glow of rosy light, beside -an ebony table spread with choice dishes and rare wines, the Rajah lay, -appreciating the change of this miniature fairy-land from the rough -existence of camps and battle-fields; and waiting for that which should -put a finishing touch to his deep content. - -She came, the Ranee of his soul, unattended, her delicate garments -floating about her like a cloud. At sight of her he exclaimed, and she -went to him, smiling and holding out her hands, secretly desirous that -he should not kiss her face. She had her wish. Scarcely daring to touch -her in her delicacy, he put her off at arm’s length, and gazed at her -in a kind of wonder that such a thing should be human. - -“Beautiful one! My princess! Sit there and let me look at thee. Most -exquisite one! Art thou too frail to eat?” He smiled at his fears, and -began to lay before her the various dishes. “See, here are mangoes, -and figs, and tamarinds, and little custard apples. And here is a kid -cooked in sugar. And rice—and all these sauces. And there is a cup of -the wine of Iran, from thy mother’s land, beautiful one.” - -With his own hands he served her, talking inconsequently, content -just to gaze upon her roseate presence. And Ahalya, who had been wont -to enjoy this patent adoration, sat wondering at herself that it had -become painful to her. She strove well to conceal her feeling, not -knowing what to make of it. And she ate, smiled, and praised the food -and wine, but could think of nothing else to say. She was dreading the -time that was coming; but she could not put it off. When both had eaten -enough, and when another jar of Persian wine had been opened for the -Rajah’s use, and Ahalya had washed her hands in a silver basin filled -with rose-water, Rai-Khizar lay back on his cushions, called the Ranee -to his side, and began tenderly: - -“Thou’rt glad, beloved of mine, that I am returned to Mandu?” - -Ahalya sighed. “I am glad,” she answered. “Oh—the days have been -dreary! The weeks would not pass. Loneliness hath killed my soul. Hath -my lord ever dreamed of the sadness of women’s lives when they are left -alone in the zenana?” - -Rai-Khizar laughed, misunderstanding her words; but Ahalya flushed -with anger that he mocked her earnestness. Seeing her expression, his -changed at once. Laying one hand on hers, he said, gently: - -“Thou hast been lonely, beautiful one? Tell me of it.” - -“How can I tell thee, who hast not been a woman? There are we left, day -after day, hating and hated by those with whom we live. And we must -dress and powder and perfume, eat, drink, sew, and be content that we -have beds to sleep on by night and a prison to house us by day. If I -leave the palace and wander abroad in the fields, under the bright -sun, the women chatter and the slaves stare, and bearers must be at -my heels to carry me if I tire. I cannot sleep away my days. Rather I -would live like the Vaisya women, who are free to labor, and laugh, and -grow hungry and weary with their toil. The monotony, the idleness of -my life, kills my soul! It is for this I danced the poppy dance. It is -for this I sometimes sit for hours in the old, ruined temple of Surya, -watching the monkeys play in the cotton trees. It is for this I shout -and sing and tear to pieces my silken garments, and break the ivories -you bring me from the south. For I am not of Hindoo blood. My mother -came from free Iran, and I am also of that race. And here, in this -sleepy indolence, I suffer—I stifle—I die! There! Is it enough? Have I -told thee?” - -She stopped, hot and eager with the feeling of her speech, to find -Rai-Khizar staring at her with troubled eyes. He gave her a long and -close scrutiny; and when he spoke it was only to say, in a quiet tone: -“Thou wilt do well to crush this spirit, Ahalya. I cannot make thee a -man;—nor would I if I could. Therefore, being a woman, thou must be -protected as one. Speak of this no more. Nay, listen, and I will tell -thee of our campaign, of the battle on the plain of Dhár, and of these -men of the west that are worthy warriors. Thou knowest, Ahalya, that, -hundreds of seasons ago, there came, over the snow-clad mountains of -the north, a great host, led by one called Mahmoud of Ghazni. They -came, in the name of their one God, to conquer our country; and though -many hundreds of times Indians and Rajputs drove them back, they have -persevered, and are now masters of the north and east. In Lahore, their -kings have ruled for generations; and now a slave sits on the throne of -the new Kingdom of Delhi.[2] And out of Delhi a fresh horde has come -for the conquest of Malwa. Beyond the walls of Dhár we met them in -battle; and, by Indra and Vishnu, we routed them well! I have brought -back in my train the nephew of their leader; and I think it will be -long ere Omar crosses the Vindhyas to get him back!” - -“Thou hast brought home the nephew of their leader! What glory for -thee! Is he to be ransomed?” - - [2] Aybek, a slave of Mahommad-Ghori, founded the present Kingdom of - Delhi. - -“No, by my life! I like the fellow, and I have made him my cup-bearer. -He pleases me with his manner. He is like thee:—rebellious. Why, look -you, on the first night of his captivity he slept in one of my rooms -here—would not go into the house of slaves, and so put me to the blush -for asking a prince to demean himself, that I have granted him a bed in -one of the antechambers near my sleeping-room. Also, yesterday, at the -noon meal, he ceased to fill my cup after the second jar was empty. I -asked him why he failed in his duty, and he answered that he did not -fail, but was, rather, careful of my welfare:—that the gods had made -kings to be examples to their people; and that a drunken king bred -drunkenness in his subjects!” - -Ahalya’s eyes shone. “And thou—what didst thou, my lord?” - -“I gave the fellow ten lashes for his impertinence. But I like him, and -I shall keep him in my service.” - -“Keep a prince for thy slave, lord?” - -“Whoorroo, Ahalya! Thou hast his tongue to-night. Come; I am weary of -talking. Dance for me—the poppy dance, if thou wilt, now we are alone.” - -Ahalya rose submissively, and poised herself, while the Rajah lay back -in deep comfort on his pillows. She was a beautiful dancer when she -chose to dance; and she could hum her own music, beating the rhythm -with her feet as she swayed slowly from one posture to another. But -she did not dance the poppy dance to-night. She only made a series of -tableaux that would have delighted the soul of an artist, and which -fully satisfied the eyes of the Rajah. Ahalya circled round him like -some broad-winged bird, moving more and more lightly, becoming more and -more cloudlike to his stilling senses. And presently when, out of her -gauzy mist, the Ranee looked at him, she perceived that his eyes were -closed and that his breath was coming deeply and regularly. - -Ahalya experienced a sudden feeling of relief. He slept. His sleep -would wear the night away. She was free to go. Joyously, softly, -swiftly, she passed out of that room and the next; but in the -antechamber beyond she paused. Three or four rooms and a passage lay -between her and the zenana. These she appeared to be in no haste to -traverse. Halting indecisively, she stood looking about her as if in -search of something—or some one; and her brow was drawn in meditation. -Then, all at once, she started, not in the direction of her apartments, -but through another door that led off into a long range of rooms, -little used, in one of which the captive slave of Rai-Khizar-Pál had -had the audacity to sleep on the first night of his coming to Mandu; -and the use of which the lenient Rajah had afterward granted him. As -she continued on her way, Ahalya’s excitement and her speed increased -until she was fairly running along, her eyes, meantime, swiftly -examining each room as soon as she entered it. At last, when her breath -had become panting, and her color unnaturally brilliant; when, as it -would seem, she began to realize what she was doing, she reached, by -her devious route, the antechamber to the zenana, where an eunuch stood -on guard. And he stared in amazement at her flushed and frowning face -as she hurried past him into her voluntary captivity. - -It was as well that the Ranee Ahalya sought her sleep that night -without having peered out of her screened windows into the inner court; -for had she done so, she might have found by accident that which she -had unsuccessfully sought. For, till a very late hour that night, Fidá, -the slave, risking his life, crouched in the shadow of the fountain of -that court, watching, with burning eyes, the glow of a single lamp that -shone in the Lady Ahalya’s rooms: a lamp which, though he knew it not, -was never extinguished. And so, when weariness finally overcame him, he -crept away without learning whether or not the lady of his dreams was -sleeping behind her imprisoning walls. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - THE ASRA RUBY - - -It was some time past midnight when Fidá, baffled and exhausted, -returned to his antechamber, and, wrapping himself in his white cloak, -lay down on the floor. Weary as he was, he could not sleep at once, but -lay for a little while thinking profitlessly on what he had done. Fate -had twice given him that which he had not sought. But now, trying to -circumvent Fate, he had been doubly defeated; for, had he been where -he should that evening, Ahalya, in her reckless search, must have -come upon him. This, happily, he did not know; but he was none the -less unrighteously angry at his failure to find out something, even -the smallest, of her habits. _Her_ habits! Reason, which he had -persistently smothered, rose up against him, and began to lay before -him certain grim truths. This woman, of whom his nearly every waking -thought was now composed, was a Ranee—a queen, a wife. To her he was -an outcast, and yet he had dared to lift his thoughts to her. Fool -that he was, he had got himself into a state men called love! What -love could be more unholy than his? She was a Ranee. But, argued his -other self, he was himself a prince by birth, and the actual head of -a great race. Nevertheless, this race of his was a strangely unhappy -one; and he, Fidá, had, all his life till now, persistently avoided -women; for to his family women were fatal. He had taken the highest -pride in his reputation for coldness, for chastity, for temperance. -At sixteen he had left Yemen to put himself under the guardianship of -his uncle,—a power at the court of Delhi; and, upon his departure for -India, he had vowed lifelong devotion to the extension of the Prophet’s -power; and had determined to allow no human temptation to conquer him. -This present matter, however, he protested, was no temptation. It was -even most unlikely that he should see the woman again, considering the -difference in their present stations. Nevertheless, after a little more -chaotic thinking, Fidá took from a certain secure hiding-place in his -vestment a tiny golden box, scarcely half an inch square, fastened by a -minute spring. Without opening it, he clasped this box closely to his -breast; and, as if it held some magic power, under its pressure he grew -calm again, his brain ceased to throb, sleep stole upon him, and little -by little his hold on it relaxed, till at last his hand fell from his -breast and his treasure rolled upon the floor. - -Fidá’s awakening was sudden. The tones of a loud voice, calling -confusedly, mingled themselves with his dreams. Then he sprang to his -feet to find the Rajah standing over him, in a most dishevelled state, -crying to him to bring drinking-water, instantly. And Fidá, startled -and sleepy, hurried away on his errand. - -When he returned with the desired drink, he found his master in his -bedroom, surrounded by half a dozen attendants, each ministering to him -in some way. Way was made with alacrity for the cup-bearer, however; -for Rai-Khizar greeted the appearance of water with a positive roar of -eagerness. After three brimming gobletfuls had been quaffed without -pause, the Rajah gave a great sigh and sank back on his cushions. “By -the fingers of Ushas,” said he, “that is the best liquor ever brought -me! Fidá, thou abstainer, where learned thy people their wisdom?—Now I -bathe. Let a meal be ready when I return, and summon Lord Ragunáth to -eat with me. Sacharman, go rouse him. Thou, Asra, say thy prayers, and -then come and wait at my table. Away! Out of my sight!” - -There was a general scurrying, in the midst of which Rai-Khizar, -restored to tranquillity, walked away to his bath, leaving the room -free for other slaves to prepare in it the morning meal. In half an -hour, when the King reappeared, all was in readiness, and Fidá stood -alone behind his master’s seat. The Rajah seated himself at once; but, -not greatly disposed toward food, sat waiting for Ragunáth before -beginning his meal. The official did not long delay, though he made his -appearance in no way hurriedly. He was carefully dressed, fresh-colored -and smiling; and in his hand he carried a tiny, golden box. Fidá -perceived it at once, and his heart throbbed with anxiety, but he -did not speak. Greetings passed between Rajah and minister, and then -Ragunáth took his place opposite Rai-Khizar, and laid Fidá’s box on the -low brass table in front of him. - -“This was upon the floor in the second antechamber,” he observed. - -The Rajah took it up and examined it, Fidá still silently watching. For -a moment Rai-Khizar seemed to consider. Then, suddenly turning to his -slave, he exclaimed: “’Tis thine, Asra! I remember they found it on -thee in my tent in the plain of Dhár, and returned it to thee again, it -being a charm of thy god.” - -“Yes, it is mine, O King.” - -Rai-Khizar-Pál examined it further, with curiosity. “Doth the box open? -What is its power?” he asked. - -“It contains a charm, great Rajah, the charm of my race.” - -“Show us this charm,” demanded the master, handing the box to his slave. - -Fidá’s hand closed upon it with visible eagerness; but he was very -loath to open it. However, there was no choice. Touching the delicate -spring, that was almost undiscoverable, the golden lid flew open, and -Fidá turned the box upward on his palm. When he lifted it, there lay -in his hand a stone, red and brilliant: a ruby, as magnificent a gem -as the Rajah had ever looked on. It was cut and polished, and from its -prismatic sides shone an inward fire of palest crimson. This stone Fidá -placed in the Rajah’s hand, who received it with an exclamation of -wonder. - -“Whoorroo! There is not, in all Mandu, a gem so wonderful! Thy family, -Asra, must be powerful indeed! Come, as the price of keeping thy -treasure, relate to us its merits as a charm, and how it came to be -thine.” - -Fidá was deeply troubled. He gazed at Ragunáth, who, forgetting -himself, was leaning over the tray, his eyes fixed—was it -hungrily?—upon that gleaming stone. There was an eagerness in the -clear-cut face that was too easy to read; and as he watched, Fidá saw -the man’s hands fairly tremble for the gem. Rai-Khizar-Pál was wholly -different. His face, as he examined the stone, expressed pleasure; but -there was not a hint of avarice in his large, quiet eyes. After three -or four minutes of hesitation and inward struggle on the part of Fidá, -the King exclaimed: - -“Thy tale, Fidá! Or wouldst really lose the jewel to me?” - -“The jewel,” cut in Ragunáth, in a smooth, quiet voice, “belongs by -right of war to the Rajah. No slave should possess such a fortune as -this.” - -“Ah, good counsellor, there thou’rt wrong. This Mohammedan is not a -Sudra. Moreover, he does not carry the ruby as riches, but for a reason -that we wait to hear. Come, Fidá, speak!” - -The King laid the ruby on the tray before him, and began to eat, -slowly. At the same time Fidá, overpressed, entered upon his tale; -and during the whole of the recital his eyes never once rested on the -jewel, but were fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s æsthetic profile. - -“O conqueror, the story of this jewel that you bid me tell is stranger -than you think. ’Tis such a story as is scarcely to be found outside of -fairy lore. And yet I stand here to prove that it is true. - -“Know that my race, the Asra, are an ancient and powerful family, that -have dwelt for many centuries in Yemen, the holy land. We are of high -descent, and among us, at the time of the Hejira, was a follower of -Mohammad, afterward one of the writers of the Koran, a venerable and a -holy man, accounted a sage: by name, Hussen el-Asra. At the same time -there lived in Mecca the high and holy Osman, compiler of the Koran, -worshipped throughout the city as a saint. Now Hussen had a son, a -young man of great beauty of face and form, and of highly virtuous -mind, called Abdullah. One day this young man, by an unhappy accident, -chanced to see a maiden, the daughter of a wealthy nobleman of Mecca, -Said ibn-Alnas; and in the first sight of her he loved the maiden, and, -going to her father, asked her hand in marriage. Said received Abdullah -in the most courteous manner, but was distressed by the object of his -visit, in that his daughter had already a suitor in old Osman, who, -though four times married to virtuous women, had become so enamored -of the beautiful Zenora that he purposed divorcing himself of one of -his wives in order to marry her. Abdullah, however, was unmarried; -and the venerable Said preferred to make his child the first wife of -an honorable man, to bringing dishonor on the head of another woman -by marrying her to Osman. Zenora, likewise, when the matter was laid -before her, as is our custom with our women, begged earnestly to become -the wife of the younger man, whom she already loved. Thereupon, before -Osman was made aware of the matter, Zenora and Abdullah were safely -married, and she had taken up her abode in the house of her husband and -her husband’s father. - -“When news of this wedding was brought to the saint Osman, he fell -into a violent rage of despair. Praying to the Prophet for vengeance, -the Prophet listened to his prayer, and put into his mouth a curse. -And so Osman went into the market-place and waited; and when Abdullah -came thither, Osman went up to him and cursed him and his love, and -the loves of his children and his children’s children, that whosoever -of his race should truly love a woman should die of it, having by her -no more than one son. And though an Asra should, in his heart, cherish -love for a woman and not marry her, the curse should yet be upon him, -till in a short time their whole race should perish from the face of -the earth.” - -“It was an unholy curse,” observed the Rajah, deeply interested. And -Fidá rejoined: - -“So thought all that heard it; and no man looked for it to come to -pass. Yet it happened that Abdullah and Zenora had not been wedded a -month when the husband sickened. Though he grew constantly worse, he -but clung the more to his wife, and she to him, until it seemed that -he must surely die. Then, in her bitterness and grief, Zenora called -upon her father and her husband’s father for aid; and the nobleman -and the learned and holy one took counsel together, and prayed to -Allah and the Archangels. And their prayer was answered. A voice from -heaven addressed them, bidding Said bring forth the richest treasure -of his house, and then Hussen to bless it and then take it to Abdullah -for a charm against the evil of the curse; and, while he carried it, -it would give him health and bring him children. So Said went and -got this ruby, which was renowned throughout Yemen for its size and -perfection. And Hussen, performing his part of the task, blessed the -gem and consecrated it to Allah, and took it to his son, who by it was -miraculously restored to health. Abdullah and Zenora lived happily, -and had many daughters, but only one son, to whom the ruby was given -at his father’s death, with the word that it should descend in time to -his first-born, and so on down. In time it was found that only those -children born of deep and lasting love were subject to the curse; but -upon these, since the time of Abdullah and Osman, the evil has never -failed to take effect when the ruby is not worn as a protective charm. -It was my father’s, and given me by him according to the custom; -wherefore my uncle, though he married and has a son, has devoted his -life to pursuits of war and hunting, knowing that the gentler pleasures -of life are not for him.” - -“And hast thou never put thy stone to the test? Hast never loved?” -inquired Ragunáth, with a faintly curling smile. - -“No,” answered Fidá, shortly. But the Rajah broke in: - -“By Surya, ’tis a tale worth the price of the gem! Take it, Asra; and -I think it were well for thee to keep it idle while thou remainest in -this palace.” - -Fidá gave a little, imperceptible start, and stared quickly into his -conqueror’s face. There was nothing to be read in it; and surely it was -impossible that the words could have had any under-meaning. Greatly -relieved at receiving back his treasure, the Asra replaced it in its -box, which he fastened again in his garment. As he did this he was -aware that Ragunáth’s eyes were still upon him; but Ragunáth’s glances -had annoyed him so often, that he failed especially to note this. He -had recovered his jewel; and now the meal was coming to an end and for -an hour he would be released from duty. - -When he was again summoned to the Rajah’s side, it was in the great -audience hall, where Rai-Khizar-Pál officiated in his judicial state. -The Mohammedan was not a little interested in the proceedings of the -long morning; and his respect for the ability of his master increased -not a little as he watched him settle, one after another, with ease, -rapidity, and remarkable insight, the great number of quarrels and -suits brought before him by his subjects. At the second hour after -noon, however, the court rose, and those natives whose cases had -not come up that day were told to return on the morrow; whereupon -they got up, without comment, from where they had been sitting in -rows around the wall, and departed to their various pursuits. The -Rajah, accompanied by Manava, retired to eat his second meal, which -Fidá served. When it was over, he stood waiting to be dismissed; for -it was the time of day when Rai-Khizar usually slept and the slave -was accustomed to enjoy a period of idleness. Left alone with the -captive, however, the King turned to him, and, after a few moments’ -consideration, said gravely: - -“Asra, I have said that I would not ransom thee; liking too well thy -presence and thy service. Yet this I have in my heart reconsidered -until, though I shall grieve to let thee go, I am willing to send -envoys to thy uncle to treat for thy ransom. Doth this rejoice thee?” - -Fidá fell upon one knee and pressed the Rajah’s hand to his head. -“Thanks to my lord!” said he, in a voice muffled with emotion. - -“Ah, thou’lt be glad to be in thine own estate again! I send the envoys -forth to-day. It should be not more than three weeks ere thy freedom -cometh. On my life, I shall be loath to part with thee. But now I can -keep thee no longer in this servant’s garb. Thou shalt be habited like -a prince again, and wait here, my guest, till thou goest forth.” - -“Let the King pardon my boldness. What is the ransom thou wouldst free -me for?” - -“Far less than thou art worth, my Asra: five thousand pieces of copper, -jewels to the worth of an hundred cows, and the oath that the Rajah of -Mandu and the mighty Aybek of Delhi be henceforth as brothers.” - -Fidá had risen to his feet; but he stood with his head so bent that the -Rajah could not see his face. “I have a favor to ask my lord,” he said, -still in the muffled tone that could not be interpreted. - -“Speak.” - -“Will the Rajah permit that, till the time of my freedom, I may remain -as I am now:—the cup-bearer of my lord?” - -“What! Art not a prince? Wouldst thou remain a slave?” - -“I asked a favor of my lord.” - -“Then it is granted, Asra. But, by the bolt of Indra, I understand -thee not!” And, displeased with his captive’s request, he got up and -strode out of the room. Fidá stood there alone, staring at the floor, -with a curling, sorrowful smile on his lips, and a deep melancholy -in his eyes. For Fidá knew his race well; and he was perfectly aware -that, though an army of twenty thousand Mohammedans might storm the -plateau of Mandu for the simple purpose of taking him out of captivity, -yet they would never pay one-half of the ransom demanded; and, should -they take the oath of brotherhood with an infidel, it would be for the -purpose of plundering him at the first opportunity. Entertaining, then, -from the first, no false hope of freedom, Fidá preferred remaining in -his present state as personal servant of a king, to mutilation and -degradation when the answer that his uncle would send should reach the -ears of Rai-Khizar-Pál. Understanding all this, and having the courage -to face it from the first, Fidá was none the less bitter at heart at -the thought of it. And it was with dragging steps and a darkened face -that he finally set off toward the house of slaves. - -There, as he had hoped, he found Ahmed, unoccupied and awake. The -brightness of the boy’s face at sight of his master roused Fidá a -little from his mood, and his eyes had lost their sombreness when, -side by side with his young companion, he left the chattering veranda, -and walked in the direction of the great courtyard. As they went, they -talked in their native tongue, and Ahmed, his boyish spirits always -light, recounted all the gossip of under-life in the great palace which -had not come to Fidá’s ears. The Mohammedan boy had made himself very -popular even among the Indian slaves; and he, like all servants, was -in possession of intimate details of the higher life that would have -astonished and nonplussed certain august personages. His chatter was -innocent enough, however. One of the slave-women in the zenana had had -a quarrel with Bhimeg, the second wife, over a pet paroquet. Purán and -Kanava had had a trial of strength in wrestling, and Kanava had come -out victor. Two of the eunuchs of the zenana were just dead of a fever. -And so on, infinitely, till Fidá had ceased to listen, and was occupied -with his own thoughts, which had suddenly turned in another direction. -After all, did he really wish to leave Mandu? Was there not something -here that could not be taken away; something that was not to be found -in any other country of the earth? Dwelt not the fairest woman in the -world here, in the place of his captivity? Did he really desire to -leave her land even for princely honors? Nay. It might be impossible -that he should see her again; yet always she was here, and here only, -the lady of his secret heart. - -The two companions, loitering through the great courtyard, finally -entered the temple room of Vishnu, that began the south wing of the -palace. A curious place, this temple, devoted to that species of -half-formed Hindooism that was at this time the prevailing religion -of India. Into this religion, as into a gigantic pie, had been thrown -pell-mell the doctrines of ancient Vedic worship, the religion of the -great Triad, the worst side of dying Buddhism, and the Philosophies, -insulted by their anthropomorphitic company. This temple room was a -fair specimen of the mingled faiths. On one side, decked and carved -with the symbols of fifty other gods, the images of Vishnu and Lakshmi -reclined upon a throne about which was entwined the great serpent -Sesha, symbol of eternity, in whose coils was caught a golden lotus, -from which Brahma and the demigods had, in the beginning, come forth. -Over the head of Vishnu hung a wooden monkey, representing Hanuman, the -friend of Vishnu; and three or four living members of the chattering -tribe dwelt in the room. Around the three other walls were images of -different gods, all comparatively insignificant, but each with his -priest and a sect, however small, of worshippers. At any hour of the -day, indeed, but especially in the morning and in the evening, there -were to be found from one to twenty worshippers seated on the floor -before the various deities, engaged in performing an Agnihotra or an -Ishti for prosperity and good fortune. - -In the dusk of this holy place, lighted by its fires, Fidá and Ahmed -continued their low-voiced talk, which had now turned upon the -long-standing feud between Kasya, chief of the eunuchs, and Kanava, the -slavemaster. Kanava was high in the favor of Ragunáth; but Kasya, heart -and soul devoted to his Rajah, found little favor in Ragunáth’s eyes. - -“Kanava,” Ahmed said, “is Ragunáth’s spy; and he can go anywhere in -the palace except into the zenana. Kasya watches his eunuchs, so that -Kanava has never been able to get in there; and I have heard one of the -eunuchs say that he has tried to bribe every one of them to let him in. -They say that Ragunáth is in love with one of the women—” - -“What woman?” demanded Fidá, sharply. - -“The youngest wife. They call her Ahalya.” - -Fidá’s eyes blazed with anger. “Why is not the Rajah told of this?” - -“Great Allah! Every one would be killed, I suppose,” returned the boy; -and the subject was dropped. - -In the midst of all this gossip Fidá had not told his companion -anything of the chief event of the day:—the matter of his ransom. -And, on reflection, he decided to say nothing about it. Ahmed’s -young buoyancy could never be made to understand Fidá’s own view of -the incident; and he could do nothing but raise hopes that would -not be fulfilled. So, after a while, each returned to his duties, -insensibly lightened at heart by the taste of intimate and affectionate -companionship. - -Fidá lay down in his corner, that night, tired out. According to old -habit he slipped his hand inside his tunic and made sure that his -little box was in its place, in a pocket that he had made for it -himself, after his other clothes had been taken from him. Finding his -treasure safe, he offered up a prayer, wondered where his uncle slept -that night, still more wondered whether the Lady Ahalya was asleep, -and, with her name on his lips, drifted off into unconsciousness. - -He was awakened by the sense that some one was bending over him. Next -he felt the lightest touch upon his body. A hand was slipping along him -so softly that only an acute sense could have felt it. Then Fidá opened -his eyes. Ten brown, sinewy fingers were working at his sash. Quietly -the Asra laid his own hands on those of the marauder, and, while the -blood rushed to his heart, gripped them with the strength of a giant. -The intruder gave a soft exclamation; and Fidá found himself looking -into the eyes of Kanava. - -The gaze continued till the slave-master was beaten. He turned his eyes -away. Then Fidá’s lip curled, and he spoke, his voice soft with scorn. - -“Go back, Kanava, and tell thy master that the Asra ruby is not for -him.” And, with a violent gesture, he flung the man away from him as -one would fling a bag of meal. - -Without a word Kanava got up and crept out of the room. After he was -gone again Fidá relaxed, and, curiously enough, found no difficulty in -going back to sleep. Nor did he afterward waste much time in thinking -of the mortal enemy he had made by that night’s work. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - POPPIES - - -On the night after the reconciliation with her husband, the night also -after her search for a slave in the palace, the Lady Ahalya went to bed -in a temper, without having roused Neila, her maid. During the night, -while she slept, some subtle change surely worked upon the brain and -heart of the Ranee; for she herself, and Neila too, knew afterward that -this night was, with her, the beginning and the end of all things. For -the next three or four days Neila’s life was made miserable; but Ahalya -did not attempt to account even to herself for the freaks, moods, and -whims which changed with such rapidity that, before human power could -gratify one, the next had made the work all to do over again. Not for -an entire week did the long-suffering attendant get an inkling of what -was really the trouble; and then she went into a state of consternation -that Ahalya made no attempt to lessen. For the Ranee’s secret mind was -running continually now, perhaps without her own volition, on the most -dangerous of topics:—how she might see the Asra again. This was not a -matter so absolutely impossible as Fidá deemed it. Life in the Indian -zenanas was not quite that of the harems of Arabia; though, as Ragunáth -knew, this one was certainly well guarded. By degrees, however, Ahalya -approached her end. How it came about, who could say? But Neila found -herself presently acting in the character of a spy. This eunuch and -that she questioned; now and then she ventured into the great courtyard -or, more warily, into the palace itself: observing, listening, asking a -question of one slave or another, till Fidá’s daily habits had become -familiar to her. Then, after so much patience, opportunity arrived. One -afternoon at the very end of the month, after the Rajah had partaken of -his afternoon meal and gone to rest, Neila herself saw the slave Fidá -set out alone into the fields, along the old temple road. This incident -being duly reported to her mistress, Ahalya’s face lighted like a -child’s. - -“I, too, am going to walk on the temple road! Yes, yes, Neila, I am -going! Seek not to detain me. I am going to gather the late poppies in -the temple field to make a rouge for my face. Come, prepare me!” - -The unhappy Neila protested violently, all her courage failing. -Gradually she had been drawn into Ahalya’s madness; but now, brought -face to face with possible consequences, she rebelled. There was a -scene between her and her mistress such as had never been known before. -But while Neila wept on the border of hysterics, Ahalya, the power of -her great malady holding her above such things, remained dry-eyed, -firm, commanding. What wonder that Neila in the end submitted? -Nevertheless, one thing the maid insisted on. She and Kasya must -follow their lady, as indeed many times before they had followed her -unconventional rambles; or Ahalya should leave the zenana only over -her, Neila’s, body. - -Twenty minutes later the three set out along the temple road, Neila -bearing with her certain fiercely given instructions that had caused -her heart to grow leaden in her breast. Kasya, as they proceeded, -wondered more and more about the relations between his mistress and her -maiden; for Ahalya was walking with a rapidity that sent the blood into -her cheeks and her heart pounding; while the traces of tears on the -other’s face were fresh enough to denote some unusual incident before -the expedition. A little more and his suspicions, ever ready because -ever needed, would have been aroused. But, at this juncture, Fate, more -powerful even than Love, stepped in and took command of the day. The -three had not proceeded half a mile from the palace when there came -running to them a little slave-boy, who, halting beside Kasya, spoke -a few rapid words in his ear that turned the eunuch’s mind from all -thought of the Lady Ahalya and her walk. The Ranee Malati, it seemed, -had called for her son to be brought to her; and the young Bhavani, the -most important person in Mandu after the Rajah, was not to be found. -For a moment or two Kasya hesitated. He had no choice but to go. - -“I beseech the pardon of the Lady Ahalya. I must return to the zenana.” - -Ahalya’s face brightened. “Go then,” said she. - -“I will send after thee another of the eunuchs.” - -“It is not necessary.” - -“Lady—thy lord would be angry. I dare not—” - -“Then send Churi after us; but let him not intrude on me.” And Ahalya, -now a little angry, started on again, Neila perforce following her. -Kasya, troubled in his mind, turned away, and set off at a run for the -palace, nor did he neglect to despatch Churi, “the doctor,” Ahalya’s -favorite slave, after the errant Ranee. But Churi, who was more an -individual than a slave, had ideas of his own about Ahalya, and did not -hurry to follow her. He arrived, indeed, at the temple ruin, to find -Neila stationed at its entrance as if on guard. And he had the immense -self-restraint to join her without asking any questions. - -Fidá, in the meantime, unconscious of the little sensation he was -stirring up, was occupied in making an exploration of one corner of -the plateau. As soon as the Rajah dismissed him he had started off by -himself, having a great desire for solitude in which to meditate on a -situation that was becoming every day more galling to him. Two weeks -had passed since the departure of the embassy to his uncle’s camp; -and he found himself gradually beginning to hope against hope that -he would, after all, be rescued from his slavery. For this captivity -which, for a few days, had been tinged with the glamour of adventure -and romance, had now become the most irksome, the most unendurable of -degradations. He walked for a long time, thinking deeply, paying little -heed to his way till the scene became too remarkable to go unnoticed. -He was two miles away from the palace when the road, which, some -distance back, had turned sharply to the left, ran out of the flat, -cultivated fields, and entered a wood which shortly became a little -jungle, the road being cut through the heaviest undergrowth of bushes, -trees, and sinuous vines. Around him, monkeys and paroquets chattered -and screamed. The foliage was brilliant as with a second summer; for -with autumn and the first suggestion of the second rains, summer leaps -up again over all the northwest country; and Fidá was gazing about -him delighted with the color and the life, the trouble of his heart -banished by the beauty of nature, when suddenly his road turned again, -and—ended. - -Before him, to the precipitous edge of the plateau, stretched a -naturally clear space, in the centre of which stood a giant building, -gone all to ruin. Its huge sandstone blocks were black with age and -green with moss and growing plants. Its veranda and great doors were -open to the daylight; and within, through openings in the roof, -bright sunlight shone. The architecture was crude and heavy; but Fidá -recognized, without difficulty, the style of the oldest Buddhism. And -he divined correctly the history of this building, which he had started -out to find: that it had once been a Vihara, later converted to the -uses of Surya, one of the Brahman gods. - -The place was, like the religion it still symbolized, a magnificent -ruin. And its setting was worthy of it; for the fields on either side -were overrun with flaming poppies, blooming for the second time in the -year, and filling the whole air with the somnolence of their burden -of opium. Beyond the fields, a fitting frame for the picture, the -jungle commenced again: a high wall of subdued color, green and brown, -splashed with the scarlet of the wild-cotton flowers. Fidá, halting -in wonder, felt his heart suddenly grow light. Here were poppies—her -flowers. It was a propitious omen. In his trouble, he had come upon a -place devoted to her symbols. Was it a sign to him to remain in Mandu, -hoping, however vainly, sometime to find a way to her? Smiling a little -at the Indian superstition of his thoughts, he moved on, rambled for -a time round the rock-strewn rooms within the temple, and finally out -into the fields, where the flowers took effect on him again and set his -mind running hotly upon Ahalya, the one woman of his world. - -An hour had passed since he left the palace, and he knew that in a -little time he must turn his steps again toward slavery. This thought -intensified the delight of lingering here, held by the fascination of -the wild flowers. And it was now, at the most beautiful hour, in this -enchanted spot, that she herself, Ahalya, came to him. Fidá saw two -figures appear from the trees by the temple. Both were women. He got to -his feet, trembling a little. Only one was advancing:—dressed all in -white, the head-veil thrown back from her face, under one arm a broad, -flat basket. Yes; it was Ahalya. Fidá perceived that he was neither -blind nor mad. She, the Ranee, was here, with him. Hesitatingly he -advanced toward her, two or three steps, and their eyes met. - -Ahalya crimsoned violently; and seeing this, Fidá grew bold. Not -thinking of the enormity of his daring, with only the memory of two -empty weeks upon him, he went straight toward her, and when he was at -her side began, passionately: “Most beautiful of women! Lotus-lidded! -Lily-faced! I behold thee, and thou art not a dream!” And then abruptly -he paused, overcome by the situation. - -Ahalya turned to look behind her, and Fidá’s eyes followed hers. -Churi had arrived at the ruin, but he and Neila stood leaning against -a fallen stone, their backs to the poppy-field, evidently talking -together. The Ranee, seeing herself safe enough, became confused; and, -still half turned away from the slave, murmured, with an embarrassed -manner: - -“I came—to gather poppies. Did my lord send you hither?” - -“Thy lord—sleeps,” muttered Fidá. - -Ahalya gave a nervous start. Now that she had attained her end, the -Ranee began to wish herself a thousand miles away, so confused was she -by the presence of this man. Fidá saw how her hands trembled; and, -emboldened by the flush of her half-averted cheek, his heart beating -furiously with a sudden hope, he took her by the hand and gently, -persuasively, led her to the stone from which he had just risen. Here, -though she would have protested, he caused her to sit down. “I must -have the poppies,” she found courage to say, lifting up her basket, -and suddenly smiling. “Neila and Churi may come at any moment.” And -she turned again to look at the ruin. This time the two figures had -disappeared entirely. - -“I will get poppies for you. Wait.” And, taking the basket, Fidá -darted forward and began plucking the tough-stemmed flowers. In five -minutes the basket was heaping full, though the assortment was anything -but select. But while he worked, his back turned to Ahalya, all his -new-born audacity suddenly ran out at his finger-tips, and when he -returned to her with the narcotic burden, his eyes were fixed on the -ground, and he was more confused than she. He laid the basket at her -feet, and then stood, like a culprit, before her. - -“Let the Ranee pardon me!” he whispered. - -“Pardon thee?” she asked, wondering. - -“Ah, I have dared to lift my eyes to thee, and now—and now—” his voice, -unpent, rang clear. - -“And now,” she breathed, most softly. - -“Now,” his heart throbbed, “I cannot lower them again!” - -Her eyes lifted themselves to his, and she smiled at him, half shyly, -half with a beautiful pride. Seeing that smile, Fidá’s senses deserted -him. He fell upon his knees before her, and lifted up his hands, crying: - -“Ahalya! I love you! I love you! I love you!” - -The princess shivered, half in terror, half in—something else. But she -could not speak. Slowly, therefore, the fire died out of Fidá’s face. -His dark head, bound with its slave’s circlet, drooped lower and lower, -till at length it rested on a stone at the edge of her silken garment, -and his face was buried in his arms. So they remained for a long time, -taking no account of the moments as they passed, neither of them happy, -both afraid of what they had done, of the astonishing betrayal. Fidá -was sick and shaken with his inward tumult. Ahalya sat in a rigid calm, -thinking, after a desultory fashion, of many ordinary things that now -seemed infinitely far removed from her. The bitter weariness of her -life had suddenly disappeared; but that which replaced it, she could -not just now consider. The revolution was too absolute. How should she -readjust herself so soon? Yet, since they were here together, free and -alone, she wished to speak; and so, in a sweet, monotonous tone, she -gave voice to many fragments that were in both their minds. - -“I love you. Is it not right, and holy? I love young things, and youth, -and beauty. Krishna and Radha loved thus. Who knows how it comes? I -loved you by the well. Your eyes shone into mine, and you smiled at -me, and you were not afraid. I loved to think of you, a captive, and a -prince. Most of all I love you here, because, Fidá—because—ah, look!” - -At the change in her voice the slave roused himself, as one wakes, with -an effort, from some wondrous dream. Ahalya also had risen, and was -staring fearfully at a figure that approached them out of the shadow of -the trees. - -“Ragunáth!” muttered Fidá. “Name of the prophet! how comes he here?” - -“Where I am, there he is also,” murmured the Ranee. “Ah, Fidá, run, -run, and bring Neila and Churi! I fear this man. He must not see you.” - -“He has already seen me. I cannot go.” - -This much they had time to say, as the Rajah’s counsellor came slowly -toward them, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes aflame with -angry suspicion. Ahalya, trembling though she was, still straightened -up to receive him, and Fidá fell slightly behind her, to one side, as -became a slave. But there was, in his attitude, small suggestion of -respect for him who approached. At a little distance Ragunáth halted -and looked at them:—looked as only he could look, from one to the other -and back again. To-day, however, his lips did not smile, but wore the -hard line of jealousy. Under this gaze Ahalya quivered anew; and Fidá -heard her catch her breath. Instinctively he stepped forward. But, just -at that moment, Ragunáth raised his upper lip a little off his teeth, -and spoke: - -“The Lady Ahalya has found a new slave.” - -Ahalya turned white, but remained silent. Fidá gazed steadily and -scornfully at the eavesdropper, who, after waiting a moment, said again: - -“Is there a new law of the Lord Rajah’s, that his slaves shall walk -with his women—picking poppies, in the fields?” - -Ahalya, angered beyond her dread, opened her lips to speak; but Fidá -was before her. - -“The Lady Ahalya, attended by Churi, and Neila, her woman, came to this -field to gather poppies. I, unknowing, was here before her. When the -Lady Ahalya perceived me, she allowed me to pluck the flowers for her -and to lay them at her feet.” - -“Churi and the woman, then,—am I blinded? I do not see them here,” and -he peered about the field like a man looking for a lost gem. - -Fidá’s hands itched for his throat; but now, suddenly, Ahalya assumed -the height of her position, and, actually stamping her foot with -outraged dignity, cried: “Does Lord Ragunáth presume—_dare_—to -doubt my word? I say that Neila and Churi brought me hither; and, -coming here, we found this trusted slave of my lord, whom I commanded -to pluck the poppies for me. But my Lord Ragunáth—came he hither also -to get flowers to make a rouge for his face?” The last words she all -but spat at him. - -Ragunáth was silenced, but very far from being suppressed. Indeed, the -slight lifting of his eyebrows and the shrugging of his shoulders spoke -as words could not speak; and Fidá was perilously near an outbreak. -At this juncture, however, by intervention of a dilatory providence, -Neila, and with her Churi, made their appearance from the temple. At -sight of three figures in the field where they had thought to find -one, or, at worst, but two, they came hurriedly forward to their lady, -who stood awaiting them in silence. Ragunáth’s eyes were now fixed -upon the face of Churi, who endured the look very well; for in his -own way he was much interested in the situation. No words passed till -Ahalya, indicating her slaves with a gesture, said icily: “Attend me.” -And then, without looking again at the minister, but with the barest, -fleeting glance at Fidá, she moved away toward the road, and was -presently lost to sight among the trees near the ruin. - -The Arab and the Hindoo were left alone, face to face. Fidá’s eyes were -fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s. On the counsellor’s lips a half-smile -hovered, and his expression had in it more of mockery than anger. When -Ahalya was quite out of sight, he spoke, slowly: - -“So—slave. Art thou prepared to greet thy god in death?” - -Now Fidá’s lip curled. “May Allah receive me at the appointed time,” -said he. - -“That time is near.” - -“Nay, Lord Ragunáth.” - -“‘Nay’? ‘Nay’? Knowest thou not that Rai-Khizar-Pál, hearing of this -adventure of thine, will not leave thee an hour alive?” - -“Even that I do not know, Ragunáth. But, were it true, still, who shall -tell the Rajah of the incident of the day?” - -“I, dog, shall tell him.” - -“Am I indeed a dog? Be it so, I am a dog that speaks. And I am not a -thief.—Does thy master know thy taste in rubies, lord?” - -Ragunáth flushed scarlet. “Thou speakest like a madman!” - -“Nay, it is rather thou that art mad. Thou hast walked on dangerous -ground before, thou traitor to honor; but never so near destruction as -now. Hast thou told thy master of thy visit to the zenana courtyard -on the day of the great sacrifice? Did he despatch thee to-day to the -poppy field? Hath he ever trusted the honor of his lady in _thy_ -hand? Oh, though thou couldst hush the mouths of all the eunuchs in the -zenana, the story of thy bribes and treachery would be shouted aloud by -every slave in Mandu.—Thus, the Lord Ragunáth is the madman.—A slave -picks poppies in the field. A slave is near a lady when Ragunáth would -speak with her. The slave has eyes, ears, and a tongue. Moreover, this -slave understands honor, for he was born a prince. Speak, then, to the -Rajah concerning this day’s incident. It were fitting he should know—” - -“Be silent, man!” - -“It seems I am become a man!” - -“Be silent,—or thou diest.” - -Fidá shrugged, but let the threat go. “_If_ I am silent, then?” he -asked. - -“If thou art silent, fool,” Ragunáth made an effort, “if thou art -silent, I will let time and thine own folly betray thee; for it is not -fitting that I should soil myself with the affairs of infidels and -slaves.” - -And this last insult also, though he was obviously in the position to -command, Fidá passed over. Was it because he knew that, for all his -bravado, he was not himself innocent of treachery to his conqueror? - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - CHURI - - -Fidá had lived in the palace of Mandu for nearly a month before he had -his first glimpse of one of the most important persons in the lower -stratum of its life, a man with whom he was later to become but too -familiar:—Churi, the eunuch. They beheld each other first, distantly, -in the poppy field. On the evening of that same day they met again. -It was about sunset, and Fidá was at the well in front of the house -of slaves, washing out certain of the Rajah’s drinking vessels, when -he became aware of a white-robed figure standing at his side, and, -turning, gave a sudden start to find himself gazing into a pair of eyes -one of which was of a lustrous brown, the other of a pale, greenish -hue. The owner of the eyes smiled slightly; and then Fidá recalled -Ahmed’s description of the doctor, he whose position ranked next to -that of Kasya among the guardians of the zenana. - -“Thou art Churi,” observed Fidá, wondering if the man had seen him -start. - -Churi nodded, and took thoughtful survey of the Mohammedan. During this -look Fidá felt, uncomfortably, that his secret soul had been penetrated -by those singular eyes. Churi’s words, however, when he spoke again, -were simple enough: “Did Ragunáth trouble thee to-day?” - -Fidá smiled. “Nay. Why dost thou ask?” - -“His face boded thee no good when I saw it. He is a man scrupling not -to lie.” - -“Have I lived a month in Mandu and know not that?” - -Churi chuckled. “Thou hast no need of help?” said he. - -“None.” - -“Then I will delay thee no longer. Yet remember that no slave in this -palace need have any fear of that mighty counsellor.” - -Fidá shrugged. He felt himself suddenly put upon the status of a -servant who discusses the persons whom he serves; and, furthermore, -Churi’s words seemed to dispel the secret satisfaction he had felt in -having outwitted Ragunáth that afternoon. Even these thoughts it is -possible that Churi robbed him of; for, as the latter turned away, the -smile was still upon his lips; nor did it wholly fade as he went back -to his quarters, which were at the other end of the palace, beyond the -zenana wing. - -In his own sphere, Churi was a privileged person, commanding a respect -and an interest above that of Kasya, the incorruptible. Like Kasya, -Churi had a room of his own; though he by no means always occupied it -alone. So great was his skill in medicine and surgery that he took the -place of first official physician in the palace, though he had had -many rivals for the place, and the Rajah was still obliged to employ a -corps of priests who strove, by means of spells and charms, to prove -their methods superior to those of the eunuch with his herbs, simples, -and tourniquets. Churi’s opponents troubled him little, however. He -appreciated his gift; and generally cared for the sick among the slaves -and eunuchs in his own room. Two of his fellows had, in spite of his -care, recently died there of the malignant fever so common at this -season of the year. And to-night, having no desire to eat alone, Churi -took his evening meal of millet and ghee with the other eunuchs in -the common room. While he was still there, chatting with a companion -or two, Kasya invaded the apartment, evidently in search of some one; -and, finding Churi, seized upon him, and drew him back to his own room, -where they could be alone. As they went, Churi broke silence: - -“The young lord was safely found to-day?” - -They were out of possible ear-shot before Kasya answered: “Too safely. -He was in the rooms of Ragunáth. But my lord himself was not there. -Kanava had the child, and I do not understand the alarm. Tell me, didst -thou overtake the Ranee before she reached the ruin?” - -During this last question Churi had begun to laugh. “Oho! I perceive! -Mine eyes are enlightened!” - -“What sayest thou?” - -“Oho! The faithful Kasya walks out with the Ranee. My lord councillor -is disappointed, captures the child, amuses him in his rooms with toys, -spreads the alarm that he is lost, brings back the faithful Kasya to -the search, and then goes to join the Ranee in the poppy field! Oho!” - -“Ragunáth! He _dared_!” - -Churi laughed again. “Dared he not? The Lady Ahalya was in the middle -of the poppy field. Neila and I stood, by command, near the ruin. Then -the councillor appeared. He had come through a path in the little -jungle. At very sight of him the Ranee fairly fled to us, whereupon we -set out again for the palace. Nor have I seen him since.” Churi stopped -rather abruptly, wondering how this ingenious version of the truth had -ever come out of him. Was it worth while to add the important details? -There was no time to consider. Kasya was furious. - -“This—this, at last, shall go to the King! This even I cannot -countenance from the man—” - -“Not so fast, comrade. What hast thou to carry to the King? Young -Bhavani wanders by accident into Ragunáth’s rooms. My lord himself goes -for a walk. By accident he meets the Ranee Ahalya in the poppy field. -They scarcely speak. She returns home with her woman and me;—my lord -remains there on whatever business is his. Bah, Kasya! The fool is -punished now. Doubt it not. The Ranee can lash a man with her eyes, an -she will; and Ragunáth was not favored to-day. I swear that by Lakshmi. -A turmoil is never the result of wisdom. Let it rest, Kasya.” - -Churi was committed in good earnest, now. For his own sake the affair -must not go up to the Rajah. - -“I thought—” Kasya bent his brows, “I feared the Ranee did not disdain -him wholly. If you speak truth, however—” - -Churi shrugged. - -“Then let it pass. In time we shall show him that the Rajah’s will is -done in Mandu.” And, with a sigh, Kasya turned and departed. - -Churi’s desire for company had gone, apparently; for he made no move -to return to the common room. For a few moments he stood in his own -doorway, brows drawn, head bent, meditating. Then he turned inside, and -dropped the hanging across the open space, to prevent interruption. -Stretching himself out on an improvised but remarkably comfortable -divan, he gave himself up to a more critical consideration of the drama -that had been revealed to him that afternoon. It was a thing that he -had never dreamed of. A day before, he would not have believed that -he could be so calmly reviewing the situation that evidently existed -between the one thing he cared for in Mandu—Ahalya—and the Mohammedan -captive. If it piqued him that he had had no knowledge of its -beginnings,—he, to whom every intrigue enacted in the palace during the -last ten years had been an open book,—he could console himself with the -reflection that he was still the only one that knew of it at all. But -he wished especially to understand himself with regard to Fidá, toward -whom, as yet, he felt no animosity. Fidá, however, continued to baffle -him. He could come to no satisfactory opinion. His concealment of what -he knew from Kasya, though it had come about accidentally, gave him -little anxiety; for it was perfectly consistent with his usual methods: -those plots and plans and hopes in which he, even he, the eunuch, -constantly indulged. - -Doctor Churi was, in fact, a person out of the ordinary. He had been -the child of a Rajput woman and an Arab. For his birth, his mother had -been put to death, and he himself, in his babyhood, sold into slavery. -Before he was even aware of the existence of right and wrong, he had -been made a creature apart from ordinary men. And when he was old -enough to understand this, his soul rose up in revolt. From that time, -his whole nature was warped; and he became an iconoclast in his every -thought. His brain was unquestionably fine. His talent for medicine was -manifested at an early age, when he tried to poison himself with opium, -and was only saved by the quick skill of the doctor in whose charge he -was still living. Under this man’s tuition, he gained his knowledge of -anatomy and the power of herbs. At the age of eighteen he was sold to -Rai-Khizar-Pál, his education having trebled his value. At the time of -the transaction, Churi was made aware of the sum paid for him; and it -was then that his great idea came: which was, by some means to obtain -the equivalent of the amount, and with it buy himself into liberty. - -Since that day, twelve years had passed away. Churi was thirty years -old; and the little hoard of copper pieces which he had been able -to store up, was still pitiably small. Meantime his heart had grown -bitter, and his mind had taken to winding through tortuous ways of -perception and imagination. He was known to many evil thoughts, but -to few evil practices. And there was in him a volcanic passion of -humanness kept relentlessly in check, that occasionally betrayed itself -above the surface in some eccentric outburst. - -The man led a solitary and loveless existence; yet as all human things -must know some softening of the heart toward some one, so Churi had, by -degrees, come to feel a strong interest, a more than interest, in the -Ranee Ahalya, the universally beloved. She was very different from the -other women in the zenana; and Churi had been first attracted to her -by the quality rarest in women: that quality which she had in marked -degree, and he not at all—disinterestedness. Because she had never had -ends to gain, because she curried favor with none, he gave her the -only genuine devotion that he had ever felt for any one; and, where -her interests were concerned, was accustomed to waive his own. Perhaps -it was this instinct in him that had suggested the lie to Kasya; and -thereby, probably, he saved the life of Fidá. But it was quite for his -own amusement that Churi now lay on his divan considering the incidents -of the afternoon. All the result of these thoughts was, that he decided -to see something of the Asra in the near future, and that the Lady -Ahalya would perhaps bear a little watching also. - -Fortune favored Churi’s first decision in a very simple way. Two or -three nights later Fidá, who had not been in the house of slaves -for forty-eight hours, went there to find his young comrade, Ahmed, -lying in one corner of the porch, uncovered to the evil air of night, -and burning with fever. Another slave, also Arabian, stood near by, -regarding the sick boy helplessly. When Fidá appeared, Ahmed, who had -lain with closed eyes, heeding nothing, sat up, stretching out his -hands to his master. Fidá took them tenderly into his own, and was -frightened to feel how hot they were. Wrapping the boy in his cloak, he -bent over him, keeping off the swarm of little flies and insects that -hovered around, and listening with alarm to the boy’s half-delirious -murmurings. Something must be done. He was not to be left in this -state. Surely even slaves were given help. And as he cast about, -anxiously, for means of assistance, he was addressed by one Chakra, a -soldier, who stood looking into the veranda: - -“If thou couldst bring Churi to the sick boy, he would not die.” - -“Ah! Churi! Where is he?” cried Fidá. - -“I will show thee where he lives.” - -“Come, then!—Nay, better, I will take the boy to him.” - -Ten minutes later the physician, squatting comfortably in the doorway -of his own room, perceived a small group approaching out of the -darkness. First came the soldier, quite subdued by Fidá’s peremptory -manner; and then Fidá himself, with Ahmed in his arms. Churi got up and -went toward them a step or two, peering with his strange eyes. - -“Thou, Chakra?” said he. - -“I come with a slave who brings you a boy sick of a fever.” - -“Oh,” said Churi, recognizing Fidá. “Come into this room.—Is the boy -thy son?” he demanded, sharply, of the Asra. - -“Nay, I have no son,” answered Fidá, calmly. “But this boy is my -friend, who followed me into captivity. And he is sick. I fear he is -very sick.” - -They were now inside the room, where two lamps burned. Fidá laid his -burden down in a corner, and then, as Ahmed clung to him, sat down -beside the boy, who gave a faint moan of satisfaction. The soldier -had already gone; and Churi, after a moment’s survey of his two -self-invited guests, came over and made a speedy examination. It took -little astuteness to perceive that the boy was dangerously ill, with a -fever that was common enough at that season of the year. When he was -assured of its nature, Churi turned to Fidá, saying: - -“Let him remain here. I will care for him. But it is not well that thou -shouldst also stay. Go, then, and fear not.” - -Fidá made two or three attempts to release himself from the boy’s hold, -Churi watching him. Then Fidá shook his head. “He will not suffer me to -leave him.” - -“I will do it. See.” Churi placed himself immediately in front of the -Asra, and laid his hands, with great gentleness, where those of the -Mohammedan had been. Ahmed, drowsy with fever, did not notice the -change. “Now go, softly,” commanded Churi, in a whisper, and Fidá -obeyed. - -Such was the beginning of Ahmed’s sickness. It endured for more than -five weeks, and, but for Churi’s unceasing care and skill, had lasted -scarcely three days. It was, moreover, the beginning of an intimacy -between the eunuch and Fidá, which developed with a rapidity and a -completeness that surprised them both. During the first few days, -when the danger was extreme, no one was allowed to see the sick boy. -But after that Fidá was admitted regularly; and, first for the sake -of Ahmed, then on his own account, he spent three quarters of his -spare time in the sick room. Churi having a private interest in Fidá, -he succeeded in making himself so interesting that the slave, though -suffering doubly from captivity and from hopeless love, was drawn out -of himself by the strength of the other’s personality. - -Ahmed’s convalescence was a fruitful period. Churi had returned to the -regular zenana duties, modified when there were any sick whom he must -attend; and so the hours in which he saw the captive were much fewer, -but thereby more prized. Churi early disclosed the fact that he had -Arabian blood in his veins; and Fidá, in a passion of yearning for his -people, made this almost a symbol of brotherhood, and poured out to his -new-found confidant all his life-story, with its fury of battle and its -dulness of peace. Churi studied the young man keenly; for just at this -time pressure was being brought to bear on him from another quarter, -and amazing possibilities began to shape themselves in his imagination. -Ahalya, chafing with impatience, longing, and bitterness, in her pretty -prison-house, had become imprudent, and told him half of what he -already knew. - -Churi had high responsibilities when he served the zenana. His duties -during the day were light enough; but by night, his was the task to -fasten every door and window looking out upon the unguarded court -of the zenana; and his night-watch at the inner entrance, in the -antechamber connecting the women’s wing with the palace, was between -the hours of twelve and two. Here was the trust which he had never -betrayed. And here, also, were possibilities which he had never -considered. The problem was before him now, however; for his feeling -for Fidá grew daily stronger. He was beginning to consider things -which, had they been suspected by a single soul in Mandu, would have -sent him, and with him Fidá, on the quickest road to death. - -Meantime, weeks had gone by. The autumn rains were at hand, and it -was more than a month since the Rajah’s men had left for the north -on Fidá’s behalf. Daily now their return was looked for; and, with -every twelve hours of delay, Fidá grew more wretched. His mind was -full of fear. It was not at all out of the nature of his uncle to have -murdered the ambassadors for the money they might have with them, or -for any fancied disrespect in their demeanor. Had this thing been done, -Rai-Khizar-Pál must know it ere long, and then even the meagre joys -of captivity would end for him. And at this time Fidá did not want to -die. The existence of Ahalya made slavery more than bearable; for while -he lived in the same building with her, the hope of seeing her again -never quite left him. He loved her. He had told her that he loved her. -That fact never failed to bring exhilaration upon him. Even the hope -of freedom could not reconcile him to the idea of losing her forever. -In his sanguine moments there flitted through his head the wildest -plans:—storming the palace at the head of an army, bearing her forth -in triumph, and carrying her home with him to Yemen, where they should -live together forever in the house of his fathers, in the holy city. - -But, in time, these dreams were brought to an end by the return of the -messengers from their long journey. On the night of the twenty-fifth of -October, Fidá lay asleep in the little box of a room that had been made -his own. He had gone to bed early that night, for the Rajah was hunting -in the hills, and his services were dispensed with. It was nearly -midnight when the slave opened his eyes to find a soldier of the guard -standing over him. He started up, and was presently following the man -stupidly through rooms and passages till they had come to the audience -hall, where the Rajah, dressed in dusty hunting-garb, sat on his daïs, -a frown of deepest anger on his brow. In front of him were five men, -worn, dishevelled, heavy with sleep. Save for this little group, the -vast room was empty. The torches flickered, ghost-like, into shadowy -corners. The deep night-stillness was only broken by the rattling of -the soldier’s armor and weapons as he walked. - -In his first glance at the scene in the hall Fidá, now fully awake, -recognized the situation. As his guide stood aside, he walked alone to -the foot of the royal divan, and prostrated himself there, kissing the -ground before him, in the deepest reverence a Moslem can do. When he -had risen again, he lifted his eyes to the conqueror’s face and found -the Rajah regarding him solemnly, with something like compassion. - -“O King, live forever! Thou hast summoned me.” - -“I summoned thee, Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan el-Asra, to hear thine -uncle’s message to me. Thou seest my men are returned.” - -Fidá, gone white to the lips, looked into the Rajah’s eyes, and, albeit -his voice was unsteady, said quietly: “Let them speak.” - -“Radai Sriyarman, repeat the message of Omar el-Asra.” - -The soldier nearest Fidá turned slightly toward him, and began, -speaking as if by rote: “Omar the Mohammedan, answering our demand of -five thousand copper pieces,[3] specified jewels, and treaty of eternal -peace with Mandu as the price of the freedom of Fidá el-Asra, spake -thus: That what was demanded was greater than the value of any man. -That he would give, with the permission of the Lord Aybek of Delhi, the -large price of five hundred dirhems for his nephew; and, we refusing -the offer, he then returned this message to Rai-Khizar-Pál, Maharaj’ of -Mandu: ‘Let the King beware that he touch not one hair of the head of -Prince Fidá. The sword of the great Prophet is ablaze over the land, -and, in a year’s time, all the country from Lahore to the great Ghats -will be under the rule of the faithful. Let Fidá, my nephew, be of -good heart. Let him be assured that any injury to him will be avenged -a thousand-fold upon the people of Mandu, and that the King himself -shall answer for his daring with his life. Thus speaks Omar of the -Asra, a follower of Mohammed, in the name of Allah, the one God, the -compassionate, the merciful.’” - - [3] Before the Mohammedan conquest, copper was the standard of - currency in India. - -“Thou hearest it! Thou hearest this message of thy kinsman?” shouted -Rai-Khizar, stirred anew to wrath with the rehearing of the insolent -message. - -“Ah! Dost thou not perceive? My uncle desires my death—longs for my -death, that he may know himself the head of his race!” Fidá cried, -in an agony of bitterness. Then, while the Rajah gazed down upon him -in astonishment, the slave once more fell upon his face before the -conqueror: “O King, live forever! Let the King show mercy to his slave! -Let him remember how I refused to assume the state of the ransomed -when the messengers left Mandu. Let Rai-Khizar-Pál remember that I am -his slave, defenceless. Let him show himself more merciful than my own -people!” - -Fidá pled passionately, scarce knowing why it was that life had -suddenly become so precious to him. To the surprise of the soldiers, -and, perhaps, to his own, his words served. The Rajah sat silent for -some moments, his pride and anger struggling with his sense of justice. -In the end the good triumphed. His frown softened, and he rose to his -feet, saying: - -“Thou shalt live, then, Asra, by my mercy. Return to thy kennel! But, -by Indra, the Mohammedan hath not yet seen the last of Rai-Khizar-Pál!” - -Fidá, scarcely believing in his own deliverance, scarcely able to grasp -the scene that had just passed, stumbled from the room, and returned -to the place that the King had called his kennel. All that night he -tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, sleeping fitfully, glad when he -woke out of his dreams. Relief at his scarce-hoped-for escape for a -time prevented his facing the future. But at last he began to realize -the fact that the hope, so slight and so desperately clung to, of -release, was gone: that henceforth he faced a life of unremitting toil, -of thankless servitude. Years—centuries, perhaps—must elapse before the -Mohammedan rule could spread through Malwa. Nay, India might rise and -drive the invaders back across her cruel mountains before the prophet’s -followers had looked upon the Dekhan. And as Fidá grimly strangled his -new-springing, infant hope, his cup of misery seemed full. Despair -gripped him; and in its iron arms he slept. - -Two days passed before Fidá again visited Ahmed. There was some excuse -for his absence, perhaps, for he was now become a slave indeed, and had -been given new tasks, one of which might, perhaps, have been regarded -as something of a favor. The charge of young Bhavani’s horsemanship was -placed with him; and every afternoon, for an hour, he was commanded to -lead the young prince up and down the road beside the water palace, -instructing him as to his seat, the carrying of weapons, and the -management of his animal. Although the spirit of his new work made Fidá -ache with the memory of his free warrior days, still he was proud of -the confidence reposed in him; and he and the young prince soon took a -fancy for each other. At first Rai-Khizar-Pál frequently appeared at -some period of the lesson; and, having convinced himself that his slave -was really fitted to instil the knightly spirit into his son, Fidá -found himself restored to a part of his former favor. - -The matter of the riding lessons and the companionship with Bhavani -were not given up while Fidá lived in Mandu; and, long before he left -it, despair over his captivity had been driven from his heart. For -forty-eight hours after the return of the ambassadors of ransom, he -hugged misery close, and the future was veiled in black. But on the -third day his lonely fortitude gave way, and, when Bhavani’s lesson was -over, he stole down to the house of eunuchs and into Churi’s familiar -room. Ahmed, convalescent now, lay sound asleep upon his bed. But upon -Fidá’s appearance, Churi came forth from a shadowy corner, and took him -by the hand. - -“Come, let us sit here, Asra,” he said, in a low voice, at the same -time leading his visitor to the place where he had been sitting. - -Fidá, mildly surprised at his manner, settled himself. Churi sat down -at his side, and stared at him, meditatively, for some minutes. Then a -distorted smile broke over his face. “I was waiting for thee, prince of -the Asra.” - -“I am no prince,” returned Fidá, savagely. “I—” - -“Yet,” broke in Churi, “I bring a message to you from a—princess.” He -paused. Fidá sat staring at him, incredulous of his ears. - -“I have a message for Fidá, Prince of the Asra,” repeated Churi, at -length, with emphasis. “Wouldst hear it?” - -“Speak!” answered the slave, hoarsely. - -“These, then, are the words I was told to say to thee: ‘Why comes -not the Asra to her that waits? The way shall be easy to one greatly -aspiring’.” Churi spoke in the lowest voice; and Fidá strained forward -to catch the words. - -“‘Why comes he not to her that waits? The way shall be easy—to one -greatly aspiring’,” he repeated, trying to grasp all that it meant. - -“And there was this to be given,” continued Churi, taking from his -girdle, and handing to Fidá, a faded and wilted poppy. - -Fidá grasped the flower in his hand, and started wildly to his feet. -“Take me to her!” cried he. “Take me to her, Churi! Allah give thee -life!” - -“Quiet! Quiet! Shall the whole palace hear thee?” Churi glared at -him, without moving from where he sat. In his face there was no sign -of life. And, at his words, and still more by the cold indifference -into which his expression had relapsed, Fidá’s flaming eagerness was -chilled. His face grew questioning. The hand holding the poppy dropped -to his side. Then Churi spoke, slowly: - -“I have delivered to thee the message. Find thou the way.” - -“Churi!” - -The eunuch smiled, vaguely. - -The smile accomplished much. Fidá’s impatience gave way. Determination -took its place. He sat down again beside his tormentor, placed the -poppy carefully in his own sash, and then leaned persuasively toward -his expressionless companion. “Tell me, Churi, wherein I am wrong,” he -said, sweetly. - -Now, Churi had got himself into an anomalous position. He had, as a -matter of fact, accepted a gift from Ahalya for the transmission of her -message; and he was perfectly well aware that she expected him to go -much farther in the betrayal of his office than she had asked in words. -But Churi was not quite prepared for these lengths. His actions during -the last few moments had been instinctive. He was trusting to chance to -show him a method of procedure. After some little thought, he answered -Fidá as truthfully as he could. - -“Thou’rt wrong in this, Asra, that thou acceptest this message for -truth when it says: ‘the way is easy to one greatly aspiring’. The -way is not easy, but, rather, so difficult that I see no means of -traversing it.” - -“Dost thou not, indeed? Ah, but thou aspirest not, Churi. That is the -difference.” - -Churi shrugged. - -“Now I already see the feat performed. Shall I explain it to thee?” - -“I am a listener, Asra.” - -“Then hark. Between the hours of twelve and two, the zenana is guarded -by one that is a kindly man. At the hour of his watch this fellow, for -just the shadow of an instant, falls asleep. Lo! The way is open!” Fidá -smiled delightedly. - -Churi, however, turned on him a solemn look. “Truly thou hast little -regard for the life of the ‘kindly one’. Knowest thou not the penalty -for a guardian that sleeps?” - -Once again Fidá sprang to his feet. “Name of Allah, man, why hast thou -brought this message then? Was it to drive me mad? Am I a fool to be -mocked at? What meanest thou?” - -Churi’s color changed perceptibly. “I mock thee not,” he said, in a -voice that rang untrue. “I mock thee not. Behold, thou demandest of me -my safety, my fidelity, my life. Is that so small a thing to ask—as a -gift?” - -“A gift! Ah! I see.” Fidá’s head sank upon his breast, and, for a -moment, he was lost in thought. Then, looking Churi straight in the -eyes, he said: “I am a slave—thou knowest that. What wilt thou have of -me? Wilt thou take my life when once I have done the bidding of—the -beloved?” - -“Thy life is useless to me.” - -“Killing me, thou couldst save thine honor.” - -“I am no murderer.” - -“Then—wait! Wait.” Fidá’s hand flew to his sash. He was not -treasureless. Nay, at this moment there was, on his body, a fortune -greater than that asked as his ransom. True, it was worth more to him -than his freedom. He had been willing to suffer slavery rather than -deliver up his race to death. But love!—Ah, the Asra had always held -that greater than life. Love was beyond price. Should not the Asra -ruby buy him the love that must eventually kill him? Instantly impulse -answered that death, after the love of Ahalya, would be as nothing. Yet -he waited to weigh the question further; and was met on every hand by -reason flanked with love. What promise did life hold out to him:—the -dry, lonely, lowering life of the slave? At the end death would come, -and the ruby be buried with him, or pass to the conqueror of the alien -race. Let him, then, buy a great, brief joy with it, and afterwards a -speedy exit from his slavery. - -Fidá drew forth the golden box, Churi watching him with surprise and -interest. Pressing the hidden spring, he let the ruby roll into his -palm, and held it out to Churi. - -“Look,” said he. “Take it into thy hand and look.” - -The eunuch complied; and, seeing how the wonderful stone gleamed and -glowed even here in the shadows, his eyes brightened and his lips -twitched. - -“This is the key to the zenana. Take it, Churi, and unlock the door for -me—to-night.” - -Churi looked up into Fidá’s face, and found there sincerity and -earnestness. For a moment he hesitated, considering, counting the cost. -At last his eyes fell. “How much is this ruby worth?” he asked, in a -low voice. - -“More than was asked for my ransom.” - -“Why, then, didst thou not ransom thyself with it?” - -“It holds in it the fate of the Asra. For her, only, would I surrender -it.” - -“Hath the Rajah seen it?” - -“Yes, and suffered it to remain with me for the sake of my people.” - -“How, then, shall I take it from thee?” - -“Because I give it—freely.” - -Churi’s hand closed slowly on the stone. His eyes were glittering as he -rose at last. “Come, then, to the antechamber, to-night,” he murmured. - -Fidá’s face grew radiant. “Wilt thou tell her?” - -“I will tell her.” - -“At midnight to-night—oh, my beloved!” - -Churi stared at him still. “Truly thou aspirest greatly,” he said, with -envy in his heart. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - THE POWER OF THE FLAME - - -After his arrangement with Churi, and the delivery of the ruby, the -remaining hours of daylight passed for Fidá in swift chaos. Ahmed woke -before he could leave the room; and he sat beside the boy trying to -talk to him for a few minutes, though he had little notion of what he -was saying. Then he returned to his duties beside the Rajah, and for -the next three hours was fully occupied, though his mind wandered far -from his hands, and he drifted through mists of thought. It was not -till later that there came an idea that filled him with terror. Might -not the King himself guard the zenana to-night? Happily this dread was -of short duration. The King sat late over his wine with Manava; and -Fidá himself saw him in bed and beyond apprehension. Then, at last -alone, Fidá betook himself to his diminutive room, and there prepared -to wait through two eternal hours. - -How long the time was; and how short! He would not look back; he dared -not look forward. He existed only in a consciousness that she, she, the -one, was waiting for him; that to-night, at last, he should be alone -with her, fearing no intrusion. This unexpressed thought he had lived -with all day; and it became keener, now, till he could not be still. -It grew late. The palace was quiet; but Fidá was beyond passiveness. -He rose, walked swiftly through the maze of rooms and passages, and -entered the silent courtyard. The moon, a little past the full, had -come up from the east, and swung, like a great, yellow lantern, above -the dark outlines of the palace roof. The world shone softly in the -mellow light. The night air from the hills was cold; but the earth was -sweet. Fidá loitered near a doorway, wrapped in his cloak. The great -courtyard was empty save for the two motionless soldiers that guarded -its entrance. Apparently not another soul was abroad in the palace -to-night. Fidá moved languidly across and looked into the temple room -of Vishnu. Darkness and silence here. The gods also slept. A great -excitement, a great terror, a high ecstasy were drawing over him. -Surely now it was time—time to claim the price of the ruby. Surely by -this time Churi stood on guard in the antechamber. Yet nothing must be -risked. If he were too early?—The thought was impossible. He waited, -therefore, till the moon was halfway to mid-heaven, and then, when he -could endure no more, left the outer world. A moment later he stood at -the door of the antechamber. - -“Is it thou?” came, in the faintest breath, from Churi, within. - -In an instant Fidá was at his side, and had seized him by the arm. -“Now! Now!” said he, gazing fiercely, eagerly, into the eunuch’s -unmatched eyes. - -“Enter then, and turn to the left hand. The way is short. It is not to -be missed.” - -Fidá grasped Churi by the shoulders, clasped him for a second like -a madman, and then ran across the forbidden threshold—where man not -of the royal house of Mandu had never set foot before. Swiftly he -traversed the short, dark passage opening on his left, and presently -found himself in an oblong room, lighted by a single crimson lamp that -glowed through a mist of incense smoke pouring up from a metal jar on a -stand, near by. Dazed by the overpowering sweetness, he shut his eyes -for an instant. When he opened them again, he had a swift impression -of rich tapestries, thick rugs, many cushions, and then—and then he -beheld, lying on a divan at the end of the room, a slight figure, all -clad in red and gold, lying asleep in the heavy air. - -His heart pounded against his sides. His throat tightened till he could -have uttered no sound; and he went to her, softly, and knelt at her -side, and gazed at her. She was here—waiting for him. Her white lids -were shut over her eyes, and the long, silky lashes curved outward a -little from her cheek. Her heavy hair was pushed back from her brows; -and one of her little hands lay in a mass of it above her head. Fidá -studied her, hungrily, eagerly, silently. He had never seen her like -this before—had, indeed, never dreamed of seeing her so. She was his, -for his eyes to feast on. And oh—how fair! how fair! In that moment -he dreaded to have her wake; for then she would surely send him from -her. It seemed to him impossible that she could love him, could suffer -him to kneel beside her. Yet, with an effort, after two attempts, he -whispered her name, hoarsely: “Ahalya!” Then again, after a moment, -“Ahalya!” - -She sighed, and her eyes opened. Shivering slightly, she stared, and -sat up, crying: “Thou art come! Ah, thou art come at last!” - -That was all. It was more than mortal flesh could bear. He had touched, -he had clasped her. She was lying in his arms. - -Nearly two hours went by; and then Neila appeared from an inner room. -Ahalya was still upon the divan, her head pillowed on the breast of -Fidá, who sat upright. It seemed almost as if they slept, so motionless -they were. Neila halted in the doorway, staring at them, till she -encountered the glittering eyes of the Asra. - -“Oh, thou must go! It is time,” she murmured. - -“No!” Ahalya, feeling the intruding presence, roused herself, and -convulsively tightened the clasp of her arms about Fidá’s neck. - -“Krishna!” mourned Neila, “we shall all be killed!” - -Fidá, however, conquered himself, and loosened the Ranee’s arms. -“Beloved, I must go—that I may return,” he whispered. - -Trembling, Ahalya submitted; and, as Fidá rose, she sank upon the -divan, face downward, nor could any intreaty induce her to lift her -head again. So they parted, without a word; and, at the zenana door, -Fidá found Churi, excited and uneasy. He hailed the Asra’s appearance -with infinite relief. - -“Mahendra will be here in a breath. I had nearly come for thee.” - -Fidá smiled at him out of shining eyes. “Ah, Churi, had I a thousand -rubies, they should all be thine!” - -“Thou fool!” rose to Churi’s lips. But he only said: “Verily, the -danger is worth rubies, even of the value of thine. Is this thing to be -done again?” - -“Again and yet again! until—” Fidá’s face darkened, “until I pay my -price—of death.” - -But Fidá as yet was far from death. Overcome with weariness he -returned to his bed, and slept for nearly six hours before he woke to -the new joy of light and living. That day he was as a man drunk. His -exhilaration was boundless. He walked upon air. His eyes shone, his -voice rang triumphant with love. The world was at its climax. She was -his. What mattered dishonor? What mattered treachery, slavery, or the -old, forgotten curse? Love, youth, the world, were his. Should he ask -more? - -With the evening came his answer. With all this, he had still little -enough; for the King ruled in his zenana, and Fidá began to know -something of the sinner’s suffering. She was beyond the protection of -him to whom by right of soul she belonged. She was beyond him; and -yet, second by second, he must suffer for and with her. He wept and -raved and clenched his shaking hands in the madness of jealousy at -this retribution of the wrong he had done. In the new day, as he came -to gaze upon the tranquil face of his conqueror, his whole being was -stirred with wonder that such things as were in his heart could lie -there unsuspected. But Rai-Khizar-Pál could not know the heart of his -slave, nor how, with night, hope came again. - -As soon as Churi went on guard at midnight, Fidá appeared in the -antechamber, unstrung and reckless. He would have rushed past the -eunuch without a word, but that he was forcibly restrained. This -action, on the part of his one ally, goaded Fidá fairly to madness; -and, without speaking, he flung himself into a fierce struggle with the -eunuch, whose strength, however, he presently discovered to be very -great. When both of them were all but exhausted, the Asra, coming to -himself, fell back, staring hopelessly at his opponent, and murmuring, -more to himself than to Churi: - -“Thou traitor! Oh, miserable! Have I sold my birthright for this!” - -“Madman!” retorted Churi, “thinkest thou there is no reason in what I -do? I serve our lady. She bade me deny thee entrance.” - -“It is not true!” - -“By Krishna, I swear it.” - -“Ahalya!” Fidá’s face grew deathlike. - -“Neila came to me at dusk. The Ranee is sick and shaken with grief and -fear. Thou canst not see her—yet.” - -“_Yet!_” - -Churi smiled cynically. “Thou boy! Verily thou knowest little of women. -Wait in patience, Asra. I think thou shalt see her again. I will not -prevent thee. But now, leave this place, if you court not death.” - -Without further words, Fidá turned and left the room. When he reached -his bed again, he flung himself upon it, and lay for a long time -staring into the dark. Then, gradually, he fell to weeping; and while -he wept, Allah had pity on his weakness, and sent him sleep. - -But Ahalya! Poor Ahalya! While her lover’s heart accused her of all -faithlessness, she suffered not one whit less than he. She loved -Fidá, indeed, wholly. Their meeting had been of her own desire and -arrangement. But she was young in intrigue, new to dishonor. And -when solitude brought her face to face with what she had done, she -was plunged into despair. Her mind distorted all things. Fidá seemed -infinitely remote from her. Their love had been a thing of such magical -growth that, having been half the time unconscious of the workings -of her own senses, she, in the first reaction, began to disbelieve -altogether in her love. She was in a labyrinth of warped emotion, -shame, and remorse; and, till she found herself again, the very name of -Fidá was abhorrent to her. - -All through the day that followed their first meeting the Ranee lay on -her bed, wide-eyed, tearless, and unapproachable. Neila wondered and -watched, but dared not intrude upon her. On the evening of that day -came Rai-Khizar-Pál, all unconsciously bringing her punishment for her -sin. For two days after this she remained in seclusion, while Neila and -Churi vainly took counsel together on behalf of the slave, for whom -each felt some sort of unselfish concern. But, though Fidá was on the -verge of madness, not a word could be got out of Ahalya concerning him: -not one message would she send. Churi began to doubt his theory of the -fallibility of women; and Neila would not have been surprised at a full -confession of everything to Rai-Khizar-Pál. But at last, miraculously, -came an incident from an unexpected quarter that did what no amount of -pleading and persuasion could have accomplished. - -In the hidden drama that had, in the past few days, been enacted in -Mandu, there was a certain personage, long since accustomed to play an -important rôle in every game of intrigue, who had had no part at all. -Nevertheless, Lord Ragunáth was not going to be discounted forever; and -it was at this stage of events that he appeared upon the scene. Perhaps -a scent of hidden things was in the air. Perhaps his sensibilities, -attuned to all that was secret, caught some vibration of treachery; -though the nature of that treachery remained undreamed-of. At any rate, -it was just at the time when the object of his furtive desires was torn -and riven with a struggle in which he was not concerned, that Ragunáth -suffered one of his periodic fits of madness, and hit upon a new and, -at last, successful method of gaining one of his ends. - -The two eunuchs who had recently died of fever in the palace had been -men of experience and importance in their station; and they had been -replaced by two others, supposedly responsible, from Bágh. Kasya had -satisfied himself that both were trustworthy; but Kanava, sounding them -from another quarter, found in one of them a long-sought weakness. -On the afternoon of the fourth day of Fidá’s misery, when the Rajah -was attending ceremonial in the village at the other end of the -plateau, one of these men, Kripa by name, stood on guard in the zenana -antechamber. Kripa was tired, and Kripa was bored with the prospect of -two stifling hours of solitary watching. He was, then, undisposed to be -short with any one that came to break his dull thoughts. And when Lord -Ragunáth unexpectedly appeared before him, he greeted the minister with -a mixture of curiosity and reverence that Ragunáth found propitious to -his purpose. He had come well prepared and fortified with the corrupter -of prudence, the breaker of faith, the power of the evil-minded—a -goodly sum of money. For a few moments he applied himself to his task -with all his considerable mind and tact; and, at the end of that time, -Kripa stood before him a newly enlisted mercenary. It had been arranged -between them that Ragunáth was to stay in the anteroom and there have a -brief interview with the Lady of his Desire; provided of course that, -what he did not for a moment doubt, she would see him. - -Quite tremulous with eagerness, Ragunáth pushed his minion into the -zenana, bearing a blind message to the Lady Ahalya to come at once, -if it were her pleasure, to the antechamber. Kripa reappeared in a -very short space of time, smiling the word that the Ranee would follow -him. And Ragunáth, drunk with high success, commanded the fallen one -to remain away for at least an hour. Promising nothing, but very well -satisfied to be free for a little while, though he dared not join -his companions, Kripa, drowsy with the dusk and quiet of his watch, -wandered off into the maze of rooms around the audience hall, lay down -upon a convenient divan, and was shortly sound asleep. - -Ragunáth, meantime, had grown as nervous and eager as a youth while he -waited the coming of the Ranee. She did not keep him long. As he stood -watching the curtained doorway, she appeared, her young face pale and -strained, but with expectation in it; her form all swathed in crimson -silks. At sight of her, Ragunáth gave a low cry of emotion; but, in the -same instant, Ahalya’s face changed utterly. - -“Thou!” she said, half wondering, half sobbing. - -“I, rose of heaven! I, star among women, whose hair holds the fragrance -of the jessamine, whose breath is perfumed like the almond blossom. I, -I, Ragunáth, have sought thee, and beseech thy favor; for, indeed, I am -gone mad for love of thee!” And, throwing himself before her, Ragunáth -lifted the filmy hem of her garment to his lips. - -Ahalya still stood in the doorway, clinging to the curtains on -either side of her, her face expressing a mixture of repulsion and -disappointment. As Ragunáth would have clasped her feet, she drew back, -sharply: - -“Away from me, dishonorable one!” she said, in a low, angry voice. “If -you would not have me expose this treachery to Rai-Khizar-Pál,—begone!” - -Ragunáth did not rise. Rather, he lay writhing at her feet, like one -possessed of a frenzy—as indeed he was. But it was a resolving frenzy. -After the period of madness, he was coming to himself again. Pride -returned to him, and, with it, something of his usual cunning, as he -remembered how willing Ahalya had been to come before him. It was then -that he got to his feet; then that he turned on the woman, asking, -softly, through shame of the display he had made: - -“O, Ranee, it was not I, then, that you came to greet? It was not for -Ragunáth that you are decked out in crimson and gold? And for whom? for -whom? Not Rai-Khizar. He waits not in antechambers for thy greeting. -Ah, will it be wise, Ranee, to ‘expose’ me to thy lord? There are -things—” - -“Be still! thou shameless, treacherous, hateful one! I hate you! Know -that. I hate—I hate—I hate you!” And, her voice on the last word rising -to a shrill cry, the young woman, white faced and burning eyed, turned -from him and fled into the inaccessible rooms beyond. There, panting, -sobbing, angry, and, in her heart of hearts, greatly terrified, -she flung herself upon a couch and gave herself up unreservedly to -acknowledgment of her hidden love and woe. - -Now, during the few moments of this interview, Neila, astonished and -frightened at what she, like Ahalya, believed to be Fidá’s appearance -at this hour, had, as soon as her mistress left her, run to seek out -Churi, whom she brought back more disturbed than she, just as the Ranee -returned to her rooms. Churi did not enter there, but proceeded at once -to the antechamber. Parting the curtains that hung before the door, he -started, and stood stock-still to find himself face to face with the -one man he had had no thought of. Ragunáth was still standing where -Ahalya had left him, and, at this new appearance, he was too much taken -aback to note the newcomer’s discomposure. - -“Churi!” he muttered, half in alarm, half angrily. - -“Even so, Lord Ragunáth.” At once Churi was himself again. - -“Dog! who sent thee here?” - -“The Puissant One speaks the same words that had lain on my humble -lips.” - -“Strangely indeed is the King’s zenana conducted! I pass the -antechamber and see no guard therein. I enter the antechamber that I -may see if the guard be perhaps concealed from view; and, as I look, -there appears a pariah, who sees fit to insult me. By Indra, thou -doctor of dogs, thou shalt be whipped for it!” - -There came a little pause, during which Churi, with his disturbing -eyes, gazed steadily, smoothly, quietly upon the man that faced him, -till Ragunáth fairly writhed under the look. Then Churi said: “It -pleases the high lord to speak these words. Since it pleases him, it is -well. But,” and the tone changed, “let him take care that he act not as -he speaks. There are things more strange than unguarded antechambers -that may come to the ears of the Rajah.” Churi’s eyes menaced now. - -Ragunáth gave some sort of hoarse ejaculation; and then, after wavering -for a moment, he turned and walked swiftly away, nor halted till he was -safe in his own rooms, with a personal slave or two on whom to wreak -his wrath and his double mortification. - -Churi, left alone, was well pleased with himself. Luckily the -self-satisfaction was not too great to prevent his having his wits -still about him. He knew that this was Kripa’s watch, and in three -minutes he had hunted out the deserter’s retreat, kicked him awake, and -despatched him to his post thoroughly frightened. Yet Kripa was allowed -to remain in possession of his gold; for Churi was in no position to -expose the acts of the man he hated. - -Unlucky as it had already proved to its two principal actors, the -little drama of the afternoon had further results. Ahalya, even in -the anger of revulsion against Ragunáth, knew that there was another -feeling in her heart: dared, after a time, admit to herself her -disappointment that it had not been Fidá who thus boldly summoned her -to him; for indeed she had gone to the anteroom, on Kripa’s summons, -thinking to find her lover there. Before nightfall she knew that she -longed to see Fidá again; and the more she repudiated the thought, -the more insistent it became, until she yielded to it. In the early -darkness Churi was despatched to bid him come to her that night. - -When Churi managed to waylay the slave, Fidá was on his way to the -rooms where wine was stored, to fill a jar for his lord’s evening meal. -It needed only a look between the two for the eunuch’s errand to be -understood. Fidá laid a hand on Churi’s arm, and said, softly: “In the -name of Allah, Churi, speak to me!” - -“There is no need,” answered the other, looking at him in a quizzical -but not unkindly manner. - -“She will see me? I shall go to her again?” - -“To-night. As before.” - -In a single instant the accumulated anger and anguish of the past -four days melted and ran away from the youth’s heart. His load of -unhappiness was lifted. Once more he walked on air. It seemed to him -that he radiated life. But the few hours that still separated them -brought him much that was new in the way of thought. Since she had -forgiven him, he perceived that his banishment had been, in large -measure, brought on by himself. He had not sufficiently considered -her, her woman’s delicacy and hesitation. He had acted as his youth -and his manhood prompted him. But he resolved that there should be no -such mistake again. The thought of her now brought a deep tenderness, -which, indeed, might have surprised Ahalya could she have read it. Nor -were the six hours of the evening long or heavy. He had a foundation -on which to build his castle of dreams; and his heart was full of -thankfulness and relief. It was five minutes after midnight when he -entered the little room where Churi stood. - -“All is well?” asked Fidá, his mouth dry. - -“All is well. No one is stirring. Enter.” - -Fidá’s bright eyes grew brighter still; and he ran boyishly through -the doorway into the little passage where, this time, Neila awaited -him. He followed her, in silence, down the short hall, through the -memorable room at the end of it, which was empty to-night, and across -the next one, that he had never seen, to a door at which Neila knocked. -A moment’s suspense, and then a muffled voice said, “Open!” The maid -pushed it, and motioned to Fidá, who passed swiftly within. The door -closed behind him. He was gazing upon the figure of Ahalya, who stood -a few feet away, looking at him, doubtfully, longingly, half sadly. -His heart throbbed with many emotions. He took a hesitating step or -two toward her, pleading with his eyes. Then, all at once, there was a -quick, low cry, and Ahalya had flung herself into his arms. - -What passed between them now were difficult to relate. Afterwards -they themselves had but a confused idea. It was very certain that -Ahalya loved him; for she delivered herself up entirely to his will. -Yet, with each of them, passion was mingled with something better: a -deep tenderness, a high companionship, the mutual compassion of the -unhappy. She laid upon him a great responsibility, telling him over -and over again that without him she should not try to live; explaining -the torture of her self-hatred: the shame that, loving him, she must -still submit to another; wetting his eyes with her tears while she -demanded from him a solution of her miserable problem. Pitying while -he loved, Fidá read what her warped life had been, and all the history -of her loneliness. Nor did he fail her in a certain sort of comfort, -of a philosophical nature, for which she cared little, save that it -came from his lips. But she listened eagerly to all that he told her -of himself, of his country and his life; though he withheld the story -of the curse, of which, at their first meeting, he had given her a -suggestion that she seemed to have forgotten. They talked long, but the -talk was finally hushed. Fidá extinguished the single lamp that burned. -And later, Neila, come to warn them of the time, found them there in -the darkness, Ahalya weeping in his arms. - -This time it was the woman that bade her lover leave her; for Fidá -had not the strength to put her from him. When at last he reached -the anteroom, only three or four minutes before the appearance of -Churi’s relief, the latter’s heart was in his throat, and he was -ready to declare that he would never again run the risk of disaster -and discovery through the slave’s rashness. Later in the night he -sought Fidá in his own room, and the two had a long talk together. The -eunuch had come with the purpose of protesting against the present -arrangement, with which he was in a high state of dissatisfaction. But -he ended by allowing himself to be, to some extent, overpowered by the -earnestness and the logic of love; though after he had departed, Fidá -lay awake for a long time, anxiously considering the risks that he ran -in placing all his dependence on this one person, whom he knew very -well to be in some ways entirely unreliable. - -Churi, indeed, was playing a part very different from the one he had -imagined for himself. He had entered upon the affair rather blindly, -and with the belief that a few weeks, perhaps days even, would convert -his ruby into money; upon which his freedom would quickly follow. A -little time had shown him his mistake. The ruby was not a gem easily -to be sold; for the simple reason that no one in Mandu save the Rajah -himself was wealthy enough to buy it; and Rai-Khizar-Pál knew the -stone, and to whom it belonged. Questions were not to be risked. Churi -soon realized that he must wait until the spring, when the travelling -merchants from Rajputana would come down from the north with the rich -wares that made their arduous journeys profitable. One of these, -the eunuch knew very well, would take his stone, without questions. -Meantime, what was his course to be? It was true that he was genuinely -attached to Ahalya, and had some feeling for Fidá. Moreover, his -natural talent for intrigue rejoiced at the risk of the present affair. -Nevertheless, that risk, as matters stood at present, was too great. -Soon, then, he found his mind at work reconstructing, building up new -safeguards against that bombshell which, one day, no caution could keep -from an explosion that must betray its existence to Mandu in ruin and -destruction. - -Churi, evil-thinking, evil-doing, was nevertheless faithful to his -better instincts. It was not for his own gain that he set his mind to -work at new plans of entrance to the zenana; and at finding therefrom -new exits, to be used in case of need. These plans materialized well; -and, by the bedside of the now almost recovered Ahmed, he expounded -his ideas to Fidá. The Asra was already aware that the zenana was -accessible by other ways than the central portion of the palace. The -passage from the north wing to the little court was left unguarded -for the simple reason that, by day, no one could enter there without -risk of being seen by half a hundred eyes; and by night the face of -the zenana itself was made, by means of chains and locks, a perfectly -impenetrable wall, by which the high Lord Ragunáth himself had more -than once been baffled. For Fidá, however, this difficulty did not -exist. On the other side of that wall there were willing hands to work -for him; for Churi himself had the task of fastening doors and wooden -window-screens at nightfall. Who was there to discover that one of -these, in the inner room of the Ranee Ahalya, was left unlocked? Who -was there to note the tiny hinge which deft-handed Churi substituted -for a bolt? Rai-Khizar-Pál never perceived these things; and, beside -him, Neila was the only soul that entered the Ranee’s bedroom. Shortly, -then, Fidá had ceased to be dependent on the antechamber for access -to his lady; and he and Churi both wondered how so obvious a means -had slipped their first consideration. But passion soon began to get -the better of the Arabian. His gracelessness no longer stopped with -the night. Hairbrained were the risks he ran, wild the chances that -he took, though all the time it seemed that he was protected by a -scandalous providence. Churi and Neila spent days and nights of dread; -but Ahalya was as blind to caution as the Asra; and together they -overran advice or pleadings; and recklessly they laughed with Fate. - -Two months—a little more—went by: to the lovers, months of ecstasy -and despair, of joy inexpressible, and keenest agony; for love like -theirs carries constantly its own punishment. But the man and the -woman were young, of Oriental blood, the desire for affection in each -rendered abnormal by the restraint to which both had been subject. -Fidá went without sleep and without food, and yet seemed to suffer -no untoward effects from his nerve-destroying existence. Indeed, so -remarkable was his vitality, so strong his power of recuperation after -the longest service and watchfulness, that he, and Churi also, began in -their minds to scoff at the Asra curse, and wonder whence the quaint -legend had originated. Ahalya, who had little to do, save in so far as -Rai-Khizar-Pál demanded her companionship, spent all the hours in which -she and Fidá were apart, in dreaming of their next meeting. Never had -she been so beautiful as now. Every line of weariness and discontent -had disappeared from her face. Her eyes, under the light of their new -knowledge, shone like stars. Her face took on a new glow of color, more -clear, more pure, more rose-and-white than ever. Her voice had gained -a new and tender richness; and, as she dreamed over the Persian harp -that she loved to play, Neila used to listen in amazement to the beauty -of her singing. Her increased charm had its penalty, however; for the -Rajah was not slow in perception, and seemed more and more to delight -in her, keeping her at his side oftener than of old. And the suffering -entailed by this was nearly enough to drive the loveliness away. - -Varied as were the duties of Fidá’s life, pleasant, or dull, or -interesting as they might otherwise have been, he performed all save -one apathetically, as so much dull labor to be got through willy-nilly. -Everything in him, every thought, every wish, was under Ahalya’s sway. -Body and heart and brain she ruled him, as, indeed, he ruled her. -There was now scarcely a suggestion of remorse or regret in either of -them. The lower natures of both were in the ascendant; and there were -numberless hours when the flesh reigned supreme. In his saner moments -Fidá sometimes paused to analyze himself, doubtfully, wondering if he -could be the Fidá of Delhi and of Yemen. But during the last month -he was not often sane; and when, with the glare of the day, other -thoughts, truths, reproaches, came to him, he fought them off, refusing -to consider, not daring to remember, his code. - -El-Islam, life to the true Arabian, was, by degrees, deserting the -captive. How should he maintain a religion that taught moderation in -all things, duty to the master, forbearance from intoxication? Ahalya, -whose mother, in her long captivity, had lost her own beautiful Magian -religion, and who had herself been brought up a Hindoo, had, like -many Indian women of station, taken the god Krishna, lord of beauty, -romance, and love, for her special deity. And some of the pretty -ceremony and graceful superstition of her half-doubtful beliefs had -woven themselves like an evil web around Fidá’s brain. Often, during -their quiet hours, Ahalya used to sing to her lover parts of the great -Indian Song of Songs—the wooing of Krishna and Radha. And her voice, -and the smooth-flowing poetry of the words, charmed him into new -forgetfulness of the sterner western creed. The story was well fitted -to their state. As Ahalya sang, he loved to call her Radha; and if she -delighted in him as the incarnation of her too well worshipped god, her -lover saw in it no sacrilege. But in this way his prayers grew strange -to him; and he became in some sort a pagan, unworthy of any god. - -There was but one pursuit left in which they found an honest pleasure. -Both of them loved the boy, Bhavani, whom, in different ways, each was -instructing in a primitive code of manhood and chivalry. The child had -taken so strong a fancy to Fidá that his father, perfectly confident of -the Asra’s fitness for the position, began more and more to surrender -him as cup-bearer in order that he might attend his son. And Fidá, -finding the child truthful, obedient, and affectionate, took a genuine -pride in instructing him in all that he knew. There were times, indeed, -when the man, brought into close contact with young innocence and -instinctive honor, was drawn to a certain unavoidable sense of guilt; -and this same thing Ahalya felt, when, in accordance with the young -prince’s wishes, she rehearsed with him, in their old way, the dramatic -epics of ancient Indian heroism and self-sacrifice. And so much alike -had the minds of the lovers become, that the young Bhavani, imbibing -from each the same often identically expressed principles, came by -degrees to connect the two in his mind; perhaps even, with a child’s -intuition, guessing something of their position, though unconscious of -its sin. - -The momentary and fleeting suggestions of remorse were very slight, -however, even with Ahalya. Neila, who knew all, watched her mistress -in perpetual wonder; for she had changed utterly. She was a gazelle -transformed to a tigress; and the handmaid, who worshipped her with the -worship of a slave for a queen, now feared her while she loved her, -and because she loved her, also feared. Neila, never told anything in -words, had known all from the first, and from that first had acted as -go-between. In spite of the cynicism of Fidá, who, after the Mohammedan -fashion, trusted no woman, she had proved faithful to both of them, -and had held the interests of both at heart. For, if Ahalya were -her princess, Fidá was a captive prince, a man rarely beautiful in -form, and, moreover, the very first that, to her knowledge, had ever -succeeded in doing what he had done. He had risen to great heights in -her eyes; and if Ahalya sometimes called her lover by the name of her -wooden god, Neila carried the matter farther yet, and half believed -that Fidá was really more than human. - -In this different-wise ten weeks passed, and it came to be the third -Ashtaka[4] of Magghar Poh (December). This sacrifice and festival, -begun at noon, was wont to continue till midnight; and the Rajah, -jealous of Brahman prerogatives, never failed to take a chief place in -such rites. Fidá, an outcast according to Hindoo codes, was, during -this holy ceremony, not allowed on sacred ground; and he therefore gave -himself up to the propitious time, and spent eight of the twelve hours -at Ahalya’s side. It wanted ten minutes to two when he left her, by the -now usual means of the low window in her room. Wrapping himself closely -in the long, white cloak of thin woollen stuff that made part of his -winter clothing, he started across the little, dark courtyard. - - [4] On every eighth day through December and January there is a - special Brahman sacrifice called the “Ashtaka.” (See Grihya-Sutras, - Vol. I, p. 203, M. Müller edit.) - -The noise of the revellers in the great court had not yet died away; -and Fidá debated whether he dared pass through them on his way to bed. -For the first time in many weeks he was thoroughly exhausted; and the -chilly night air swept over his parched and burning body with grateful -effect. All at once he felt that he dreaded to be alone because of -the thoughts that might come upon him. Entering the north wing, he -rapidly traversed the narrow passage leading past Ragunáth’s rooms, -turned instinctively in the usual direction, and presently emerged -at the court, where the ceremonial was over, the fires burning low, -and the soma revellers lying or standing about in various degrees of -intoxication. Near the door of the audience hall stood a little group -of priests and officials, among whom were the Rajah and Ragunáth. Not -daring to approach these, and giving not more than a passing thought to -the matter, gradually overcome by vague, chaotic ideas that were rising -in his mind, Fidá went on, out into the road, and along it till he came -to the water palace that stood on the edge of the plateau, overlooking -the south plain, through which the great Narmáda rushed. Here, in -the stillness, Fidá halted, looking around him. He was beside one of -the smooth water-basins overhung with slender bamboos and tamarind -shrubs, with tangles of lotus-plants floating, brown and dead, upon -its mirror-like surface. Before him rose the low, level walls of this -charming accident of Indian architecture. On high, overhead, hung a -late moon, wreathed in a feathery mist of night clouds, and throwing a -faint light over the plain and the distant river. To the right, in the -distance, a long, black, irregular shadow, rose the giant barrier of -the Vindhyas, beyond whose mystic recesses, far northward, lay distant -Delhi, the city of the slow-conquering race, the people of the captive -now standing here alone with the night. Gradually, as Fidá looked, -a great awe stole upon him. His body had grown cold with the night -chill; but his mind took no heed of the flesh. A change was upon him. -His chaotic thoughts were shaping themselves. Gradually, before the -vastness, the high dignity of nature, the ugliness of his last weeks -became clear to him, and he trembled with horror of himself. Slow tears -ran down his cold, set face. He locked his hands together, and rocked -his stiffened body to and fro. A cry was welling up in the heart of -him, standing there in the face of Allah’s creation: the high-reaching -hills, the wide, moonlit plain. To his overstrained nerves it seemed -that they judged him, in their immense incorruptibleness:—him, the -corrupt. And presently the mountains lifted up their voices and -spake. Plainly to his ears, out of the dim, black recesses, came low, -deep tones, uttering first his name: “_Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan -el-Asra_,” and then, after a long pause, the words, old and familiar -to him since childhood, the tradition of his race: - -“Cursed be the Asra by Osman: cursed this day and forevermore any man -of them that loveth woman as I have loved Zenora. Let him die in the -first year of his loving, though from east to west he seek a cure. And -to him that taketh from another a promised wife, may the curse of Allah -the Avenger seek him out till he be hidden in the depth of Hell. Thus -I, Osman, curse thy race!” - -Down from far generations rolled these words into the ears of the -youngest of the Asra, who, hearing them, uttered a deep cry, and, -swaying for a moment where he stood, presently fell, face down, into -the dead grass beside the pool. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - THE CURSE - - -The night moved quietly on, the moon dropped westward, and still Fidá, -lying there on the dead kusa grass, did not stir. From his swoon he -had fallen into a heavy sleep which was unmoved by the slow passing -of the night. The far mountains, oblivious of the havoc they had -wrought upon a human mind, reared themselves grimly toward the stars, -and out of their fringing forests came now and then the roar of some -king animal, or the melting cry of a night-bird. Little by little the -moon paled and the stars grew dim, and a white mist rose over the -far-flowing river. The cold breath of dawn was upon the world, and in -its inimitable stillness the slave, wakened perhaps by the throbbing -of his own pulses, opened his eyes dully, and shivered and then rose -and stood staring down into the pool, struggling to free himself from -the bonds of oblivion and of sleep. When the memory of the past night -opened before him, it was as if he contemplated the undoing of another -man. He made no attempt, he had no wish, to think or to reflect upon -himself. The dawn was upon him—the sacred hour. Already, in the east, -a pale, clear light had lifted itself upon the horizon. One or two -silent birds—kites—floated over the walls of the water palace and -began to sink slowly into the depth of the plain. In the village a -dog howled, an ass brayed. Instinctively the spectator inclined his -ear for the muezzin’s call to prayer. But there was audible only the -flutelike note of the newly wakened koïl. The east brightened. The -clouds over the Vindhyas grew rosy, and the river mist was tinged -with gold. In the fresh morning air Fidá could perceive how his brain -burned, how his head throbbed. His body was racked with misery, but -there was a great clearness in his mind:—no searching, no thinking, -only a sudden upliftment and a simple sense of gratitude to nature for -this, her hour. Prayer was not upon his lips; but at last it lay in his -heart:—the great natural prayer that the first Hindoo, waking on his -world two thousand years before, had felt and could not utter. - -The hour was advancing. The line of clouds above the northeast hills -changed from pale pink to a fiery rose-color that shed a glow over the -whole plateau, and haloed the man who stood, with his white-clothed -arms upraised, drinking in the purity around him. When at last the sun -pushed its edge over the horizon, it was invisible to Fidá; but he -knew, from the gradual disappearance of the delicate vapors, from the -sudden quieting of the birds, the _sense_ of day, that the mystic -dawn was over. Then, at last, Fidá realized suddenly that he was faint -with weariness and parched with thirst. Slowly he took his way back to -the palace, thinking not at all, only passively longing for rest. His -walk over, he stopped for a moment at the well, then went at once to -his own room, and, thankfully remembering that every one would rise -late to-day, threw himself on his bed and sank into another stupor-like -sleep. How long it was before he regained a vague consciousness, he did -not know; but he found two men standing over him, and one he recognized -as the Rajah. The sight of his face caused Fidá a dull surprise; but he -returned into the stupor without having uttered a word. After that his -rest seemed to be broken by various dire sensations and many monstrous -dreams. When his eyes opened, he always found Ahmed, and sometimes -Churi, near at hand; and, comforted by their presence, realizing that, -with them, delirium would be safe, he resigned himself. He knew that -he was very ill. Every one else knew it. Churi was exerting his utmost -skill; though he never once thought of the ruby. It did not remotely -occur to him to try that as a remedy. Three or four weeks passed -away, and then the fever abated a little, and gradually it came to be -understood that the Rajah’s favorite slave would live. By degrees his -strength, wofully depleted by the reckless strain he had put upon it -for so long, came back; and by the end of January he made a feeble -appearance again. He soon discovered that his sickness had not been -thought unusual by any one, since in his ravings he had betrayed the -fact that he had spent a night on the ground near the water palace. -Indeed, it would have been strange if the fever that lurks in all damp -night mists in western India had not made him a victim of his own -imprudence. - -This view of the matter brought a great relief to Fidá. Perhaps, after -all, the incident of the curse had been just the wild dream of a sick -man. Perhaps those sinister words had been spoken by his own heart. -Perhaps.—Perhaps.—Perhaps. But, unnaturally, after Fidá was up and -about again, he did not get well. There were days when it seemed as -if his old-time vitality were returning to him; but there were many -more when he felt as if, by no possibility, could he bear the weight -of his limbs: when, racked with an inward fever that penetrated to the -very bone, he dragged himself about only by a superhuman effort. Yet, -unspeakably dreading that time when he must face the end, the slave -made every effort to conceal his illness, forcing himself to much -that seemed impossible for a man in his condition. One thing only he -could not do. He could not see Ahalya. Now, in the light of their past -vital relationship, he realized that he could no longer attempt his -former rôle. Day and night, it is true, he longed for her sympathy, -her tenderness, the touch of her gentle hands. But in return for her -ministrations he could give her nothing—nothing but the weary plaints -of a sick man. And so, steeling his heart to loneliness, he went his -way, blindly and dumbly, yet still, after the pathetic human custom, -hoping that life held yet a few empty years for him. - -When, with mid-February, the spring appeared, Ahalya could no longer -bear her unhappiness, and one evening sent Churi to Fidá, bidding -him come to her. It was a summons that could not be refused; and, in -the early darkness, he stole to her rooms by the little courtyard. -Alas! How many, many times had he come to her thus in highest joy! -How differently to-night he came! In each heart there was dread, and -fear:—in hers that he long since tired of her, in his that she could -no longer care for him. When he appeared she was alone, standing at -the end of the room by her narrow bed, her face turned to the window -through which he entered. Seeing him, she did not move, but her eyes -grew big with inquiry, and her mouth drooped a little. Fidá, who could -not look upon her without deep emotion, also stood silent till he could -command his voice. Then he said, gently, but without much expression: - -“Thou hast sent for me. I have come.” - -Ahalya’s lip quivered, pitiably; and she lowered her head, without -replying. - -Fidá, watching her, moved forward a step or two. “Ranee—what is thy -grief?” he asked, putting her, by his appellation, infinitely far away. - -Ahalya gave a sob that was like a scream, and, flinging herself face -down upon the divan, laughed and wept hysterically, but still without -speaking. Fidá, bewildered, miserable, yet hoping something that he -dared not voice, knelt at her side and longed to give her comfort; -restraining himself only by a great effort. She wept as long as she -would, and then suddenly ceased, lifted herself, and turned a burning -gaze on him. - -“Faithless one,” she said, in a low, monotonous tone: “thou faithless, -infinitely despised! Did I not give myself to thee, for thee committing -the greatest sin? I loved thee, and my heart was true, and in thy long -sickness by day and night I prayed to the gods for thee, vowing that, -shouldst thou die, I would follow thee as becomes a widow; for in all -ways I have considered myself thy true wife. And after thine illness, -when I yearned unspeakably to comfort thee, didst thou come hither? -didst send one word to me, that still live only in the thought of -thee? Oh, tell me,” and her voice rose passionately, “who is thy new -love? What is the name of her on whom thy traitor kisses fall? O thou -wretched one—” her tone became a long, ungovernable wail, “O captive—O -Fidá—hast thou forgotten me?” - -“For the soul of Allah, Ahalya, do not torture me! Ahalya, Ahalya—I am -true to thee! Look at me!” - -Dropping his concealing cloak upon the floor, he stepped into the -glow of light under the hanging-lamp, the pitiless rays of which fell -directly across his emaciated and deathly face, out of which shone -his eyes, glittering with fever. Ahalya gave a low exclamation, which -he answered. “Yea, look upon my face. It is that of one that hath not -much longer here. I have not told thee, thou beloved of my soul, of the -curse that lies upon my race. That curse was given me by the Vindhyas -on the last night that we loved. In my heart I know well that I am -doomed. My strength is gone, and the weakness grows daily greater. -Shall I bring this misery upon thee? Shall I—” - -But here he was stopped. Comprehending him at last, Ahalya, her eyes -shining with new-found peace, went to him and put her arms about his -wasted frame; and he, feeling no desire to resist, let himself be drawn -down upon the divan, his head pillowed on her breast, her strong, -young arms around him. “Beloved,” she murmured over him, and Fidá -gave himself up to her. As he lay, passive, motionless, one of his -hands wound in her curling hair, they talked together, scatteringly, -of many things. Both of them understood that their burning days were -forever at an end; that indeed of the quiet ones there were left not -many. But, for the moment, Fidá could look upon the future without -dread; and Ahalya was under the spell of too great a relief to face -new calamity at once. Both knew, indeed, that the situation might have -been infinitely worse. There might have come sudden parting:—death for -one, for the other the torture of long waiting. Instead, the future -was to be to them but a golden repetition of the golden past. And even -now their companionship could be resumed, their love only growing the -stronger as Fidá’s body became weak, since they were now bound by ties -of truth and unselfishness that no misrepresentation or sorrow or -suffering could break. - -Thereafter ensued a quiet period of nearly four weeks. The spring was -advanced. The planting was over, and Mandu abloom. The sun’s rays grew -daily hotter, though as yet there was little discomfort from heat. It -was the time of year when all growing and living things love and mate; -but for Ahalya and Fidá it was the autumn of love. Their days were -filled with misgiving; for, as the inevitable end drew near, both came -to suffer a great anxiety about the manner of that end. - -Nor did the late spring bring joy and peace to Mandu. With the advent -of gay birds from Ceylon, came also messengers from Dhár, in the north, -bringing word that Omar the Asra, with a Mohammedan army, had come out -of Delhi and was sweeping victoriously southward on his way to Mandu. -To this warning and covert appeal for aid, Rai-Khizar-Pál could not but -reply by gathering together his fighting men, and preparing to march. -Mandu was in a state of excitement; but there was no rejoicing that -their well-loved King must prepare to set out on a new campaign. The -ministers that were to be left to rule were unpopular; for this time -Ragunáth was not to accompany the army, but left co-regent with Manava -over the people. For many days these matters kept all the plateau in -a state of ferment; and there was perhaps only one person among them -all that viewed the proceedings with apathy. He, indeed, was one to -whom events might have been considered to be most important. Fidá -might not unreasonably have entertained some idea of being taken upon -the expedition in his position as King’s cup-bearer. But this hope, -or fear, was quickly killed; for Rai-Khizar-Pál valued his slave too -highly to run the risk of losing him by allowing him to come into -actual contact with his own people. Nor could Oriental flesh and blood -have been expected to withstand such temptation to escape. - -It was on the twelfth of March that the Rajah, with his army, was -to set out upon his second campaign against the Mohammedans. On the -afternoon of the eleventh, Fidá was with young Bhavani when the Rajah -summoned him. It had been one of the slave’s most miserable days. -During his morning service he had taken care to keep himself as much as -possible behind his master; and now he dreaded the interview extremely. -There was, however, nothing for it but to obey the call; and, resigning -Bhavani to his attendants, he hurried away to the King’s private room, -where he found Manava and Kasya standing one on either side of the -royal divan. At the door Fidá performed his usual deep salaam, and was -motioned to come forward. - -“Enter, Asra. I sent for thee. By the flocks of heaven, thou’rt sick -to-day! Hast no care for thyself, good slave?” - -Fidá smiled, slightly and bitterly. “I have no need for care. I am in -health, O King,” said he. - -“Tell me not that any man with visage so deathly is in health. Thine -appearance troubles me, for I repose great trust in thee, and I dare -not depart in fear of thy death. Speak, Manava,—what thinkest thou of -him?” - -“He hath the appearance of a man very ill,” answered the minister, -thoughtfully regarding the slave. - -“Fidá, for the space of a week keep to thy room, and let Churi and the -priests attend thee and bring thee back to strength again. Thou must -accept so much of aid, for thy look troubles me sorely.” - -The Asra threw himself on the floor at the King’s feet, and once more -protested that his looks belied him, that he was perfectly able to -perform his usual tasks. And the Rajah, whose projects were upset by -the prospect of this slave’s illness, allowed himself to be persuaded -against his own judgment, and proceeded to the object of the audience. - -“Fidá el-Asra, thou hast been in Mandu, in my service, scarce half a -year as yet; but because thou art of high birth and noble training, I -repose confidence in thee. I cannot take thee with me upon my campaign, -because I should fear to lose thee in the north. But, in leaving thee -behind, I am about to place thee in a position of great trust. Manava, -whom thou seest standing upon my right hand, is, in my absence, to be -part ruler of Mandu. To Kasya here, my faithful eunuch, I intrust the -guardianship of my women. To thee I give the last of my treasures, the -hope of Mandu: my son, Bhavani, the flower of my heart; to be taught -and guarded till my return. Thou shalt have full direction over him, -save only in those times when the Lady Malati, his mother, desires his -presence. Already Bhavani loves thee, Asra; and thy training makes thee -fitted to be his companion and his master in my absence. For this trust -that I repose in thee, give me thy fealty.” - -Deeply touched by a mark of favor so little deserved, Fidá fell upon -his knees and pressed the Rajah’s foot with his brow. In that moment of -abasement he was very near to confession; and, had it not been for the -presence of the other two, Fidá might, at that moment, have opened up -his heart and told his lord all the story of his treachery and crime. -A moment’s swift reflection, however, brought with it the remembrance -of Ahalya; and in dread for her the impulse passed away, and he found -himself protesting incoherently his gratitude, his fidelity, and -his sorrow at the departure of the Rajah. Once more, before he was -dismissed, Rai-Khizar-Pál, noting anew his gaunt and pallid face, -expressed some concern for his health; and then, giving his hand to -his slave’s lips, sent him away. Fidá, his nature suddenly revolting -against himself, sought his room, flung himself face down upon his bed, -and there, in guilty misery, poured out some sort of inchoate prayer of -remorse. - -After an hour or two of meditation and quiet, the Asra took resolution -on a certain matter which he had been pondering for a long while. -Ever since he had become certain that the curse was actually on him, -he had wondered whether or not Churi had yet disposed of the ruby. It -was Churi’s place to have thought of the stone for him; and he hated -himself for the desire he had to touch it again. But it had apparently -never occurred to the eunuch to use the blessed jewel as a remedy; -and, as often as the thought came to Fidá, he put it resolutely from -him in shame. By this time, however, his hunger to gaze upon the charm -had grown great and fierce. He felt an intense desire to live; and, -believing the means of health to be within easiest reach, what wonder -that his temptation came again and again? This evening, in view of the -new trust, which he had the strongest desire honorably to keep, the -temptation suddenly overcame him, and, putting away his pride, perhaps -even his self-respect, he went to seek out the doctor. - -Churi was in his own room, eating. Looking up from his food, he gave -Fidá his usual easy salute: - -“Vishnu favor thee! I am told that thou’rt to be given sole charge of -the young prince. Truly, Asra, the King loves thee as well as his wife. -Wilt deign to eat with me?” - -Fidá did not respond to the ill-timed raillery. He stood leaning -against the wall, gazing at the eunuch with so strange an expression -that Churi changed his mood. - -“Thou’rt ill to-night,” said he, more gently. - -“Yes, I am ill,” answered the Asra, in a low, harsh tone. “I am dying, -Churi.” - -“Dying! Why shouldst thou die, lover?” - -“Allah! Thou knowest why.” - -“Ah! The old legend. Dost really believe—that—” - -“Canst thou doubt that I am cursed?” - -They remained facing each other, silent, staring. No further words -were necessary. Churi knew very well now why he had come; but he sat -struggling with himself, for he was disturbed. Nevertheless Fidá’s -ghastly face pled strongly. After a few moments, during which the slave -suffered under his degradation, Churi rose, walked to the shadowy -corner of the room, bent over for a moment or two, working in the earth -of the floor, and then came back to Fidá with the gold box in his hand. -Fidá, looking into the unmatched eyes, saw animosity in one and scorn -in the other. - -“There. Take back thy gift.” Churi held the box out to him. - -To the eunuch’s astonishment, Fidá deliberately accepted it, rolled -the ruby out into his hand, and for a moment feasted his eyes on it. -Then he pressed it to his breast, shut his eyes, and moved his lips in -prayer. When the prayer ended, he replaced the jewel in its case, and -once more held it out to Churi, who had stood in silence, watching him. - -“I thank thee,” said Fidá, simply. - -Churi looked surprised anew. “Wilt thou not keep it?” he asked. - -“Ah! Thou thinkest me such a dog?” - -“Will that help thee—just the moment of it?” - -“I do not know; yet it seems to me that the very sight of it hath -helped me.” - -A second time Churi held out the box, this time voluntarily. “Take it -and keep it on thy person for a week.” - -Fidá drew back. - -“Nay, I wish it. I trust thee.” - -“But it is thine. How hast thou not already sold it?” - -“That is not easy. I dare not show it in Mandu. But in the month -of April will come a man from the north, a travelling merchant of -Rajputana, that comes each year, bringing with him silks, rugs, gold -work, and gems of the costliest kind. I know him well, and he will take -the ruby and give me my freedom. Therefore thou seest there is time for -thee to recover. Take the stone at least for the space of a week; and -then if thou art better, thou shalt keep it till the merchant comes.” - -There was only friendliness in Churi’s tone. Fidá’s simplicity had -disarmed him. Seeing that the favor was done willingly, Fidá accepted -it; and, when he walked away from the eunuch’s house, the little golden -box lay in its old place in his girdle. - -Next day, at noon, all Mandu thronged about the palace and along the -old road to witness the departure of the Rajah and his army. It was -indeed a brilliant pageant that set forth upon the long and dangerous -journey to the north. Fidá, in a throng of slaves, stood against the -south wall of the great courtyard, and watched the companies form. At -high noon Rai-Khizar-Pál, attended by his two ministers, who walked -one on either side of him, came out of the palace, and was greeted -with tumultuous acclamations by the throng of soldiers and people. -And the Lord of Mandu was unquestionably worthy of admiration. Never -had Fidá seen him more magnificent. His large, well-proportioned body -was clad in half-armor, of a purely ornamental type, under which he -wore a fine, white garment heavy with red and silver embroidery. On -his head was a white turban from which rose a black aigrette fastened -with a pin glittering with rubies. His horse, a magnificent animal, -in trappings of black, red, and silver, with the small double-drum -rimmed in silver placed before his saddle to mark his rank, was held in -waiting. After a few inaudible words with the regents, and an effective -parting from each, he walked swiftly to his steed, sprang upon it -without aid, caught up his bridle, swept an arm toward his body-guard -which immediately galloped up and surrounded him, and then, amid the -renewed shouts of his people, rode rapidly out of the courtyard, and -began the march. He was followed by Purán, in more serviceable costume, -surrounded by a group of what might be called aides; and then by the -army itself:—first, two hundred horse, and then five hundred foot, the -whole of the forces of Mandu. Slowly, line by line, they formed in the -limited space, and wound away after their leaders, spear-heads and -head-pieces flashing in the sunshine, men and animals alike fresh and -vigorous—eager for what lay before them. - -To Fidá, still leaning against the courtyard wall, this sight of armed -and armored men passing out to honorable combat, was bitter indeed. -All the warrior in him rose and struggled for place in his enfeebled -frame. He was sick with the servility of his life. He loathed the -despicable part he had played. Every soldier that passed him seemed -to him to walk over his heart, bringing back vivid pictures of what -had been, when the smell of battle was sweet to his nostrils, and the -battle-cry the fairest music his ears could know. Once he had been a -man! Now—now—he would not answer the question of his conscience. When -the hour was over, when the last foot-soldier had passed out of the -courtyard and was lost in the winding road, he drew a long, heavy sigh, -and moved his eyes. The first thing they encountered was the figure of -Ragunáth, standing near him, gazing fixedly in the direction of the -departed host; and Fidá saw with wonder the expression on his face: an -expression of deep-seated relief, joy,—nay, rather, triumph. The Asra -stared yet more earnestly, a sudden apprehension striking home. Was it -possible that, at last, Rai-Khizar-Pál being gone, Ragunáth meant to -taste the well-guarded fruit? Fidá’s lips shut tight. Was there finally -to be an open struggle between them? Was it to be his happiness once -to perform a real service for the King? Wondering, hoping, hating, he -stood there, nor heeded how he was grinding the golden box deep into -the flesh of his left side. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - ASRA FIGHTS AGAIN - - -The departure of the Rajah and his army wrought, at first, little -visible change in the life of the palace at Mandu. The zenana was a -little duller, the ceremonies less formal, the work of the royal court -less arduous;—for Manava, though a just man, had not his over-lord’s -popularity as a judge. To Fidá, however, the absence of Rai-Khizar-Pál -made a marked difference; and his life was almost entirely changed. He -had a new sense of freedom; and he saw Ahalya oftener than ever. Since -she was no longer subject to her husband’s will, both she and Fidá -had a much greater feeling of confidence, but also a greater sense of -dishonor than when he was at hand. The duties of the Asra, meantime, -were light, and less uncertain than they had been. All the morning, -and, indeed, nearly to mid-afternoon, he was with Bhavani. But when -their various tasks and pursuits were over, the young prince generally -elected to spend the rest of his time in the zenana, where he was the -spoiled pet of twenty or thirty women. In this way many hours were -unquestioningly open for the slave and Ahalya; but Fidá was shortly -made aware that most of them must be hours of sadness. One week from -the evening on which he had had his last talk with Churi, he reappeared -in the room of the eunuch, who, as usual at that hour, was within. The -Asra walked up to him, and silently tendered him the golden box. Churi -looked quickly into his face—and his eyes remained fixed there. - -“The charm—hath not worked?” he asked. - -“No,” answered Fidá, shortly. - -“Thou’rt not better?—Thou’rt worse?” - -“Yes.” - -“But the reason of it?” Churi looked down at the treasure now lying in -his own hand, and a faint smile stole across his lips. “The charm—is -gone?” - -“I sold it. I sold the birthright of the Asra. I have doubly cursed my -race. It is fitting, indeed, that I should expiate the sin by death!” - -“Nay, despairing one. We shall cure thee yet. ’Tis but a lingering -fever. I shall try to help thee. There is a certain draught of herbs—” - -Fidá interrupted him with a sort of laugh. “Nay, Churi, spare thy -skill. Fever-draughts will not avail against the curse of the Saint. -There. I thank thy generosity. I thank thee, also, Churi, for all the -rest thou hast done for me. I tell thee now in the face of death, that, -were all to do over, I would face a thousand ends for half the glory -I have known in her. And all this, I owe to thee. Had I mine uncle’s -riches in addition to the ruby, they should be thine. And yet—Allah -comfort her when I am gone! That—that, Churi, makes me suffer. Oh, I -talk folly in my weakness. Heed me not. A peaceful rest to thee!” And, -turning on his heel, Fidá was gone. - -Time crept slowly along, and the Asra, absorbed in his duties and in -his increasing weakness, took little note of the many things that -passed about him. Ragunáth, busied with his share of government, was -now doubly occupied with certain plans and desires of a private nature. -It was a strange thing that Rai-Khizar-Pál had never seemed to suspect -what all the rest of the palace knew: that Ragunáth was, and for a long -time had been, deeply enamoured of Ahalya, who, six months before, had -been almost at the stage of returning his affection. But for the past -four months, indeed since the sharp repulse he had met with from the -lady herself, Ragunáth had had the wisdom to make no attempt to see -her. Now, at last, however, the time seemed favorable for a renewal -of his efforts; and the mere possibility of success roused the man’s -long-stifled passion with unconquerable fierceness. Rai-Khizar being -well out of reach, Ragunáth was now a great power in the government. -Manava he considered almost unimportant, but pliable. And so did he -turn over matters in his mind, that he finally arrived at a casual, -well-arranged talk with his fellow-minister, begun about servants in -general, and continuing to Kasya in particular, who was getting old, -who would be well replaced by some younger, more vigorous man:—Kripa, -perhaps? He, Ragunáth, felt that the whole matter might be adjusted -very simply, and would himself undertake it and its responsibility. -Manava listened to him, seemed struck with the idea, considered it for -a little, in his grave, inscrutable way, and then said some pleasant -things to his coadjutor. Nevertheless, Ragunáth, on retiring, found -that his point had not been gained; found that he had an impression -that Manava considered the whole affair absurd; but was able to lay his -memory on not one single unpleasant word that the other had spoken. -He began then to perceive that he had underestimated his companion in -office. - -The failure of his scheme was a serious disappointment, and proved for -a time a check upon his plans. Review the situation as he would, he -could see no point in Ahalya’s guardianship that had not already been -tried and found invincible. Considerably involved in other matters, -he was forced to leave this, that was nearest his heart, alone for -a little; though her image was scarcely out of his mind by day or -night. And with all his brain’s ferment, Ragunáth found no hope of -action until, for her own reasons, Chance, the great goddess, stepped -scornfully in, and gave him what no scheming could have brought about. - -Spring was now far along, and March at an end. It was the time of year -when all young things were at the fulness of their vitality; for in -India the late spring, before the coming of intolerable heat, is the -real summer of the growing world. All nature was filled with vivid -life. Each lightest thread of zephyr carried with it a shower of golden -pollen, blown for floral marriage-beds. Birds and beasts had long since -mated. And by night the bulbul in the champak bushes sang to his mate -throbbing songs of the children that were coming to them from the eggs -over which she brooded. Lutes in the hands of poets attuned themselves -to the triumph of love; and, under the universal spell, only Fidá could -not rise to it. On the afternoon of the third of April, the Arab had -been with Ahalya for a moment only, showing himself too miserable to -linger at her side; and she had sent him sadly away to rest alone, and -perhaps sleep back into a semblance of life. Left to herself, Ahalya -found it impossible to be still. She was young, and there was no curse -on her to keep the summer from flowing in her veins. Neila was asleep -somewhere in the zenana. She must have some one to speak to; and, even -as she pondered, the young Bhavani bounded in to her with a fascinating -and unwise proposal. Some slave, he said, had told him that this year, -in the water-palace pool, there was a blossom of blue lotos, the flower -said to be found only in paradise. Would she not go out with him to see -if it were really there? Ahalya seized on the idea with alacrity. She -longed to get into the living world; and Bhavani was delighted with -her enthusiasm. The Ranee veiled herself, and then, calling no one to -attend them, they hurried into the little courtyard, out of it into -the north wing, and so across a corner of the great court and into the -road to the water palace. And, as Fate had decreed, Ragunáth, sitting -at council in the great audience chamber, caught, through its open -doorway, one fleeting glimpse of Ahalya’s veiled figure, recognized it -instantly with the divining eyes of desire, and began to calculate how -soon he should be able to follow her. - -Unconscious of the ill-omened gaze, careless of the recklessness and -the indecorum of walking abroad unattended, Ahalya went on, hand in -hand with the worshipful boy, joyously drinking in the exquisite -air of the late afternoon. The sun almost touched the river in the -west, and the air was suffused with rosy gold. From the south came a -fragrant breeze, laden with the spicy breath of far Ceylon. There was -a twittering chorus of birds. The trees and shrubs on every side were -clad in foliage in the highest stage of fresh beauty. The tamarind -and the willow vied with each other in grace. The bamboo was tufted -with palest silver-green. The almond trees had finished blossoming, -and the grass beneath their branches was strewn with pinkish petals. -Here and there was a lilac shrub, heavy with clusters of pale purple -flowers—emblems of Persia. And in sunny places the grass was strewn -with white and golden gillyflowers, with occasional starry narcissi and -daffodils. The whole world was abloom, and the air heavy with perfume. - -As she proceeded, Ahalya’s languid delight increased to a species of -intoxication. She was bewildered by the beauty of the world, enchanted -by the high, pure notes of the birds, by the whisper of winds in the -trees, by the heavy hum of drunken bees, by the murmur of distant, -rushing water. Bhavani, a little overcome by her manner, presently -broke away from her to run after a new-come butterfly; and Ahalya -walked on alone to the water palace. Arrived there, and seeing Bhavani -happily racing away at a little distance, the Ranee seated herself -beside the pool, almost in the very spot where, months before, Fidá had -stood and listened to the curse that welled from out the mountains, -whose sides were now swathed in a bluish haze, that grew gradually -golden in the light of the setting sun. Here, in the shade of the -willows and bamboos that overhung the basin, Ahalya’s mood changed, and -her thoughts were no longer of the joy of the young summer. - -She thought on darker things: of the plight in which she was, of -the worse one that was shortly to come to her. In her love of Fidá -Ahalya was now, and, after the first day, had been, remorseless and -surprisingly careless of discovery. This was all in accordance with the -training of the child-woman, who, though she did not know it, had loved -the Rajah as a daughter only, and had turned from him to the young Arab -with all the truth and all the womanhood in her. There could never be -for her another like Fidá. And she knew now that the end of love was -very near. She had been denied its expression for a long time; but -while its object lived she did not care. Now, however, in the midst -of this brilliant scene, she suddenly perceived how weak, how worn he -was. And it was borne in upon her that the pallor of his face was the -pallor of death. How soon would the end come? How would it come? Could -she show her love for him in performing the suttee? Would there be -opportunity? or would he be burned, like a dog, on a handful of sticks, -in the city of the dead at the other end of the plateau, far from her -reach? The thought was too hideous to be maintained; but the shadow -of it darkened over her heart. How was it possible that such dreadful -things could be? How— - -She was interrupted in her morbid revery by Bhavani, who, tired of -butterflies, came to drag her round the pools in search of the blue -lily. Ahalya was not now in the humor for this amusement; and Bhavani -became slightly peremptory in his demands. So, finally, she released -herself from him, and, while he ran on, to the other side of the -building, she, desirous of returning to her meditation, melancholy -though it was, began slowly to pace up and down the flowery turf. -Bhavani was quite out of sight; and Ahalya herself, her back toward the -road, stood gazing out over the sunset plain below, when there was a -sudden step behind her, and a voice exclaimed in her ear: - -“Can it be that I have found the embodied spirit of the summer?” - -She turned sharply, and found herself face to face with Ragunáth. Her -first impression was one of disgust at the expression on his face; her -first instinct to escape as quickly as possible from his presence. - -“I am not a spirit at all. I have lingered here too long and must go at -once. Your favor, sir. Let me pass!” She motioned him imperiously out -of her way; but, to her amazement, he only moved as she did, so as to -be always in her path. - -He smiled, regarding her half-admiringly, half-respectfully, but kept -his position till, stamping one small foot upon the ground, she cried, -angrily: “Out of my path, my Lord Ragunáth!” - -“Nay, be not so hurried, Ranee,” he returned, mildly. - -Annoyed by the presumption which his tone belied, she lifted her eyes -and looked him fairly in the face. A shudder ran through her frame. At -last she realized that he did not intend to let her go: that her wishes -were now of no consequence. Instantly she was alive to her situation. -She looked around her, terrified, desperate, and perceived, at a little -distance along the wall of the palace young Bhavani, standing quite -still, staring at the figure of the newcomer. Immediately Ahalya began -waving her hand to him: - -“Bhavani! Bhavani! Run quickly! Seek thy master!” - -Ragunáth grasped her roughly by the arm. “Silence!” he cried. And -indeed she was silent, for, even as her tormentor spoke, she saw -Bhavani turn and start like a deer in the direction of the palace. And -Ahalya knew well to whom he would go first of all. - -In a measure relieved, understanding that now she had only to gain -time, her wits rose to the situation, and she turned her face to -Ragunáth’s frown, and laughed. “Art thou so angry that I have sent the -boy away? Wouldst thou have had him stand there gazing at us? Even -Radha despatched her maidens ere she let Krishna look upon her face -unveiled. Hast thou not heard that tale, my lord?” She smiled on him -incomparably. - -Ragunáth’s reply was a laugh. He, who trusted no living man, was in an -instant thrown off his guard by a woman’s trembling coquetry. “I have -heard the tale.—What lover hath not? Yet it hath never been sung to me -in the young summer, and by one resembling Radha as thou dost. Sing to -me, then, beautiful one, of the loves of Radha and Krishna.” - -“But I have neither lute nor harp.” - -“It matters not. There is no instrument that would dare accompany thy -voice.” - -So Ahalya, her heart throbbing with fright, her whole body quivering -with loathing of the man who walked so closely at her side, began to -sing. And as she sang, the daylight sank from the sky; for the sun had -set, and darkness, most terrible to her plight, was upon the land. She -sang the eleventh Sarga of the great epic: that of the union of Krishna -and Radha, which she had so often poured into the ears of him she -delighted to call her god. And even now, at the joyous triumph in the -words, her heart was sighing at the emptiness of her love. This, to the -music Vasanta and the mode Yati, is what she sang: - - “‘Follow, happy Radha, follow, - In the quiet falling twilight, - The steps of him who followed thee - So steadfastly and far—’” - -“That is true, most beautiful Radha. Let thy fair feet henceforth -follow me through the land of delight,” murmured Ragunáth, in her ear. - -Her voice shook as, without replying, she went on: - - “‘Let us bring thee where the banjulas - Have spread a roof of crimson - Lit up by many a marriage lamp - Of planet, sun, and star.’ - - “‘For the hours of doubt are over - And thy glad and faithful lover - Hath found the road by tears and prayers - To thy divinest side—’” - - “‘And thou wilt not deny him,’” - -broke in Ragunáth, whispering, - - “‘One delight of all thy beauty; - But yield up open-hearted - His pearl, his prize, his bride!’” - -Ahalya shuddered again and was silent, wondering what evil genius had -made her begin that song. She began to fear, desperately, that Bhavani -had not understood: that she was really left alone, at the mercy of -this man whom she feared as much as she hated. Therefore, filled with -terror at what she had made herself do, she suddenly determined to -attempt escape; and, on the instant darting from Ragunáth’s side, she -started, at the top of her speed, across the grass, in the direction -of the road. Ragunáth, taken wholly by surprise, stood for a second -staring after her, and then hurried in pursuit. Unhampered by his -garments, and far more used to swift exercise than she, he overtook her -halfway to the road, and caught her round the waist in an iron clasp. - -She gave a faint cry, and, at his touch, strove wildly to escape it. -But Ragunáth was not now in a mood to let her go. Grasping her yet more -firmly, he lifted her, and, in the starry darkness, carried her across -the open space and into a little copse of champaks and wild cotton -trees at one side of the empty lawn. Here began a fierce struggle. -Ahalya fought like one possessed of a demon; and Ragunáth was a little -aghast at the strength of her fury. Fearing to hurt her, and realizing -that at this rate her strength could not last, he devoted himself only -to defence and the prevention of her escape, reserving his force for -the time of her exhaustion. And indeed Ahalya presently found herself -in a sad plight. Her strength would not last above a minute more. Only -one hope was left now; and that was desperate enough. Lifting her head, -she uttered two piercing screams. And—to Ragunáth’s consternation—she -was answered by a fierce cry, as a man’s figure dashed through the -trees to where they stood. - -Ahalya had only an instant in which to recognize the gaunt form of -Fidá. She caught one view of his face in the gloom, alight with such -fury as she had never dreamed he possessed. Then the two men were -locked together in mortal struggle. - -Broken and weak with the strain and terror of the last half-hour, -horror-stricken at what was happening now, Ahalya stood like one -entranced, watching without sound or movement the combat going on -before her. She could not, in the darkness, distinguish between the -two forms rolling together on the ground. The men fought without a -sound:—Ragunáth with the strength of passion, Fidá with a final fury of -jealousy and despair. It lasted only three or four minutes. Then the -woman, who, in her terror, stood rocking her body back and forward, -holding both hands to the sides of her head as if that helped her to -suppress the wild screams on her lips, saw one figure suddenly rise -above the other, draw a weapon from his girdle and plunge it once, -twice, thrice, into the breast of the other who was struggling to lift -himself from the ground. Instantly, with a low, gurgling cry, the body -fell back. And Ahalya, peering like a mad-woman into the dusk at the -living man, whispered hoarsely: - -“Fidá—Fidá—is it thou?” - -And he, who was standing straight and still, his arms hanging at his -sides, answered quietly: “Yes, Ahalya. I am here. I have killed him.” - - - - - CHAPTER X - - THE SONG OF NARMÁDA - - -For a long time they stood there, in the stillness of the night, -looking at each other in a kind of lethargy; while between them, on -the ground, lay the body of Ragunáth, gradually chilling, the blood -from its three wounds still running thinly down into the pool beside -it. Around and over all three of them myriad fireflies fluttered, like -stars of the under-world, setting a ghastly glow over the ghastly -scene. Fidá’s heart was beating very faintly now. He was obliged to -breathe in little gasps. But he was not thinking of this. His mind was -groping. He was still in a great darkness when Ahalya came over to him, -walking carefully to avoid the blood, and laid both hands on his arm. - -“Let us go back to the palace,” she whispered. - -Fidá shook his head. “I think I shall not go back to the palace. I -think I shall go on,” he answered. - -“On! Whither?” - -“Up. Up to be judged.” - -“Fidá! Beloved! You will come with me.” - -But the man was not to be moved by her tone, which was such a one as is -used to a sick child. Possibly Fidá was mad, or very near it; but it -was a quiet madness, and he was sure of his desires. - -“Alas, Ahalya, what wrong I have done thee! All the wickedness that -man can accomplish I have accomplished. Wherefore I am going up before -Allah. But thou must not grieve for me, thou fairest of all women. -Thou knowest well that I was very near the end. Most beautiful—most -sweet—lotos-lidded, fear not lest I should not take upon my soul the -double crime. Thou shalt be freed from all sin in the eyes of Allah and -Mohammed. It is the last joy of love that I can perform for thee.” - -He spoke in a quiet, solemn tone that frightened the woman -inexpressibly. As he paused, she threw herself before him, clasping his -knees. - -“O my lord—O beloved of my heart—thou Krishna—whither thou goest permit -that I go also! If thou art to appear before thy great god, suffer me -to remain at thy side. Spurn me not for that I am a woman. Did I not -vow to thee long since that, since thou wast my true husband, I, thy -faithful one, would not suffer thee to die alone, but, performing the -suttee with mine own hand, would accompany thy spirit to its blest -abode? And I swear now by the faithfulness of Radha, and by Lakshmi and -Devi and the divine Ushas, that, if thou goest forth alone into the -presence of the gods, I will surely follow thee. Wherefore, thou, who -hast loved me well, grant me a last boon. Let me go forth and die with -thee, that we may be judged together, and, if thou lovest me still, -together endure our punishment.” - -“Consider thy words, Ahalya. Just now thou’rt not thyself. Return to -the palace and dwell there quietly, and let peace come into thy heart. -I absolve thee from that old vow of love. There is no one that could -suspect thee of this murder. I have done it; and this my absence will -proclaim. Bhavani knows nothing. He is now with Churi, and thou canst -tell the child what thou wilt. Return, then, to the house of the Rajah, -and forget—and forgive—my sins.” - -“Nay! Nay, nay, nay!” It was the first time that either of their voices -had been raised. “I will not be absolved from my oath! I will not be -left alone to face the terrors of Kutashala Máli! Take me with thee, -else, by mine own hand, I die alone. Oh consider the sweetness of death -together! Consider the terror of death alone!” - -“Again—I plead with thee!” - -“No, no. If thou diest, I also will die.” - -“But thou knowest, Ahalya, that I cannot live. Thou knowest that -to wait will mean either execution by torture for the murder of a -Brahman-Kshatriya, or a long and agonizing death through my curse. And -I, coward-like, perhaps, choose here a swifter and more merciful end. -Yet, if thou wilt, I will return with thee to the palace and wait there -for what may come.” - -For an instant Ahalya considered. Then she answered: “Nay, beloved, I -will not have thee return to the palace. Only take me with thee that I -may not die alone.” - -“And if I took thee with me? How should we die?” - -“What was it that thou wouldst have done, going up alone?” - -“I have here the dagger that slew Ragunáth.” - -Ahalya shuddered. “Not that! Listen. Thou knowest that by my people -there are certain waters held sacred to the gods, so that those that -die in them are cleansed of many sins. Such a stream is the broad -Narmáda, which to us is the little Gunga, the promised sacred flood. -Let us, then, under cover of night, go down to the river and there, in -the same moment, die together—thou in my arms, I in thine.” - -Fidá reflected. “How shall we reach the river?” he asked. - -“I have heard that there is a way down the rocks of the plateau at this -end. When the plain is reached, it is an easy walk to the river. By -dawn we should be there if—if only—thou hast the strength.” - -“I shall have the strength. Did I not slay this man?” Fidá’s pride -was touched; and perhaps, after all, just this little, human vanity, -decided them. “I have the strength. But thou, most beautiful, canst -thou endure this long and painful journey now? Faintest thou not for -food? Will my arm be enough to uphold thee by the way?” - -“If I fall, Fidá, thou shalt kill me where I lie and thyself proceed. -Nay, I shall not fail thee. Come. Let us seek the path down the cliff.” - -There was a moment or two of delay while the knife was plucked from -the body of the dead man, and Ahalya removed a part of her hampering -drapery. Then, after one solemn embrace, they started. It was the time -of the month when there was no moon; but the stars, nowhere in the -world more brilliant than here, shed a faint, steady light over the -quiet earth. The descent of the great cliff was begun at a point almost -immediately behind the water-palace; and they soon found themselves -occupied enough to forget the tragic circumstances of the journey, as -they picked a fearful and uncertain way from point to point, from rock -to rock, down, through the night, from high Mandu to the plain. What -chance it was that stayed their destruction, they scarcely knew. But -certainly it was a miracle that, in the first five minutes, they were -not dashed headlong down the whole depth. Fidá’s knees shook under him. -Had it not been for Ahalya, he would have ended all just here, swiftly. -But, with an effort that he felt to be the final summing up of all -his forces, he went on, the woman following uncomplainingly, fleetly, -silently. It lacked an hour to midnight when they reached the plain, -and, looking back and up, wondered at what they had accomplished. - -Now they threw themselves upon the ground, for a few moments of -necessary recuperation. Ahalya was drooping with sleep, which Fidá -dared not permit her to indulge. He realized, vaguely, that the -unnatural strength on which he was enduring must break soon; and by -the time it was gone, they must be at the river-bank—the borderland of -eternity. So, after a few moments, he bent over her, whispering: - -“Up, beloved—up, and on! We must reach the river by dawn. There, my -Ahalya, thou mayest sleep—we may both sleep—long and undisturbed.” - -And Ahalya, heeding him in all things, rose and put her hand in his, -and they passed into the night again, over the plain, toward the -distant river. - - * * * * * - -Dawn, white, mistlike, broke slowly upon the world, over the plains -of Dhár, where, to the south of the city, two armies were encamped: -one, that which guarded the city walls, the joined forces of the -Lords of Dhár and of Mandu; the other, Omar el-Asra, with five -thousand Mohammedan warriors out of Delhi. In the earliest dim shadow -of daylight these two armies stirred, woke, and swiftly prepared -them for the day; till, when the first shafts of the sun tipped the -Indian spear-heads with red fire, there rose from either line a low, -deep battle-cry,—from the Indian ranks the oath of the gods: “May -the bright bolts of Indra, the discus of Vishnu, the lingam of Siva -protect us to-day!” and from the other side the cry that was echoing -over all the civilized world, from Granada to Benares, the great -shibboleth of conquest and carnage, before which the earth bowed: -“La-Ilaha-il-lal-laha!” “There is no god but Allah!” a god of violence -and death. And while these shouts still echoed to the sky, the two -lines began a slow advance, till, ere they met, a great cloud of -sun-bright dust whirled up and around them, and the haze of impending -battle closed them in from mortal sight. - - * * * * * - -Light lifted itself also over the swift-flowing, holy Narmáda, on the -north bank of which stood the man and the woman, hand in hand, silently -watching the coming of the day. They were exhausted with the horror -and the travail of the long night; but their minds were now above the -physical state. That no longer mattered. Fidá stood staring at the -slowly lightening waters, his face fixed and very stern. Ahalya also -was still, leaning on the arm of her lover, her eyes closed. She was -not praying, nor did she even think. Of what was there to think? The -past lay behind them, ended. Of the future there was none. The present -was painless. Like Fidá, she was tacitly waiting for the first rays of -the sun to mark that spot in the water where It must come. - -Just before the first finger of gold was raised over the Vindhyas, just -before the armies in distant Dhár began their advance, Fidá turned to -Ahalya beside him, and murmured, softly: - -“Beloved, it is too terrible for thee. I cannot let thee die here, -thus. See, it is cold, this mountain water. It comes from far above.” - -“Hush, Fidá. We are to go up together. Thou hast promised it,” she -replied quietly, her lips barely moving. - -Fidá uttered a groan. “It is not I—it is not for myself I falter. But -thou—there is no sickness upon thee—” - -“Look! look, beloved, it is the sun! See where it makes a bed of gold -upon the stream! Lift me up, Fidá—carry me out—carry me out and lay me -there—upon our golden bed.” - -She turned to him, and he, looking into her upraised face, could -urge no more. Lifting her, with a last effort, gazing the while deep -into her unrepentant eyes, he sought for the last time her lips, and -then—with a setting of all his muscles—stepped forward into the stream. -The rush of water, even near the shore, was very swift. It was scarce -up to his waist, no more than covering Ahalya’s ankles, when, suddenly, -he knew that he could not breast the current. There was a second of -agonized realization—a scream from the woman as she was plunged into -the icy flood. Then came a moment’s struggle with the resistless, -irresistible force, which at one time covered the whirling bodies and -again exposed them to the air. Suddenly Ahalya was swept into the arms -of Fidá. With the last instinct of life, the hold of each tightened -about the other. Then, in the tumult of the running river, came a -mighty stillness. The current might toss them as it would. They were -alone and one, and there was for them a moment of indissoluble peace -before they were called up to answer for their deed. - - * * * * * - -And now, upon the plain of Dhár, the battle-lines had met, and were -mingled in an inextricable mass. Those watching from on high—Brahma, -Vishnu, Siva, and Allah—might, in the hideous mêlée, have been able -to distinguish one single combat, short, swift, decisive. There, in -the midst of the shouts, shrieks, and yells, encompassed by flashing -weapons and life-streams running red, two men, Omar el-Asra and -Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu, met together, fighting mace and mace, and, -later, sword and sword. One moment, only, in that chaos of duels, did -this endure. Then the great Rajah, husband of Ahalya the beautiful, -conqueror of an Asra prince, plunged forward from his saddle, his skull -cloven in two by the keen blade of the Mohammedan warrior. - -Thus, in that fair April morning, by devious ways, four souls that had -been closely bound in their earth-life, went up and met together at -the throne of the dread judge:—Rai-Khizar-Pál, his sceptre laid down -forever; Ragunáth, his faithless minister, passion-spent at last; and -finally, still hand-in-hand, still unrepentant of their love, Fidá of -Yemen and the Ranee Ahalya, not now flushed with the sweet rose-hue of -her Iran. - - - - - BOOK II - - SOUL-FIRE - - “‘... Yes, who am I? God wot! - How often have I prayed to Heaven to tell me!— - Who am I, God?—But Heaven itself is mute. - Yet this I do know: whatsoe’er I be, - Hero or weakling, demigod or beast, - I am the outcast child of the bright Sun - That longs for home!— - A bundle of sorrow, weeping for the light - That stretches out its radiant arms in vain - And yearns for me!’” - - —GERHARDT HAUPTMANN, “The Sunken Bell,” Act V. - - - - - CHAPTER I - - THE SON OF GOKARNA - - -It was July; and in Bul-Ruknu, Vindhya-sheltered, the rains were over. -From now till September one could but avoid the open sunlight and sleep -as much as the human system would permit. This afternoon the heat -poured blindly over the mud and bamboo village, and even animals and -children had deserted the streets and sought shelter from the molten -sky. One woman, her head and body wrapped round in bright-colored -cotton, darted out of the close veranda of her own dwelling and -hurried swiftly down the street toward the spot where, set a little -off by itself, stood the largest and best-built house in the town. -Entering the veranda of this she found seated there, on a pile of straw -cushions, her half-sister, Kota, wife of Gokarna, the head-man, and at -the same time, which was unusual, chief priest of Siva, the village -deity. - -Greetings passed between the two; and Kota, causing her sister to sit -beside her, clapped her hands for a slave who presently appeared in the -doorway, a timid, unkempt girl of fifteen. - -“Bring us fruits, Jensa,” commanded her mistress. Then, as the girl -disappeared, she turned to Hilka: “’Tis six days since I have seen -thee. Are thy gods propitious?” - -“Yesterday, at sacrifice, the omens for the harvest were bad. But -Gokarna has told thee that. How art thou?” - -Kota stirred a little, uncomfortably, and lifted her languorous eyes to -her sister’s face. Just then the slave came back with custard-apples, -early mangoes, and pomegranates in a basket. Kota took them from her, -proffered the dish to her visitor, who accepted one of the mangoes, and -then, while both began to eat, Kota said slowly: “I am not happy, my -sister. My mind is troubled. I am filled with melancholy and foreboding -concerning the child. I see many strange visions in my sleep. The gods -refuse me peace.” - -“Art thou thus, Kota? That is not right. Yes, I can see thou art not -well. Let Gokarna offer special sacrifice for thee.” - -“He hath done so twice already since the _Pumsavana_. But ah, -Hilka, I cannot speak my heart to him. It seems to me as if my thoughts -were not my own. They are put into my mind by evil spirits. I fear -them, and I fear the end. Alas, shall the soul of this child be evil? -I fear it! I fear it!” She spoke with a nervous intensity that made -a strong impression upon Hilka, who knew well her sister’s lazy, -thoughtless temperament. It was the first time she had ever perceived -any strong feeling in her. Now she said anxiously: “Go to Naka, at -the end of the village, and get a charm from him to ward off the -_Devas_.” - -“Hush! Gokarna is coming! Do not speak before him of charms, or he -would scold us both.” - -Hilka, who had been sitting with her back to the street, turned -hastily, as Kota’s husband appeared in the veranda entrance:—a tall and -austere-looking Brahman, clad in a long, white garment. He came forward -at once to greet his wife, giving Hilka but a careless recognition; -for, to the head of the village, even his wife’s relatives were -scarcely worthy of attention from him. And Hilka’s visit was brought -to a sudden close; for no woman of Bul-Ruknu would, from choice, have -stayed long in the proximity of the Priest of Siva. - -Kota bade her sister a quiet farewell, not asking her to come -again—rather taking that for granted. And when the visitor was gone, -she turned immediately to her husband, who touched her on the forehead, -answered briefly her questions concerning the day’s auguries, and -presently left her and went into the house. - -Kota, knowing that it would be useless to follow him, too dreary at -heart to care whether or not he talked with her, returned to her -cushions and sat down again to gaze off into space at the swirling, -white heat-waves, and to dream, vaguely, of days that had never been. - -For an Indian, Kota was a pretty woman, her eyes being very large and -soft, and her black hair, just now woven with yellow champak flowers, -thick and long. She was seventeen years old, and had been married for -three years. Moreover, she had been born a Brahman, and, in her married -life, had been highly honored; for, though until now she had been -childless, her husband had not taken another wife. Above all, Gokarna’s -parents had died in his early youth; so that Kota, at her marriage -made mistress of the finest house in Bul-Ruknu, had been also spared -that terror and curse of all young Indian women—the mother-in-law, -whose traditional duty it was to make the life of the young wife one of -perpetual misery. - -At the time of her marriage, the girl Kota had been envied by every -woman in the village. Later, despite the unheard-of advantages of her -position, she had not been so much looked up to, for the reason that -she was childless. But, just now, her star was again in the ascendant, -since, in the winter, she was to present Gokarna’s house with a -much-prayed-for heir. - -In spite of the fact that she was to have what she herself had most -longed for, Kota, as she had just explained to her sister, was not -happy. Her mind was in an abnormal state; and was seriously affected -by the slightest incident. Highly imaginative, like all her race, she -had always been more or less given to visions and presentiments; though -never so much as now. She would sit for hours motionless, wrapped in -unhappy dreams, or, as the result of some slight accident, a prey to -the keenest forebodings of evil. These things she did not often confide -to her husband. Nor did she see enough of the members of her own family -to get much comfort from them. Thus the naturally morbid state of -her mind was fostered and increased by her loneliness and her secret -broodings, till her nights were filled with terror, and her days were -of the length of years. - -The hot months passed slowly; and when, after the early harvest, the -fall monsoon came on, Kota grew more than ever listless and unhappy. -Her time was now much occupied, however, with religious ceremonial; -and, in this respect, probably no woman was ever better cared for than -Kota. The _Simontonnayana_ was made the occasion of a special -festival, which was attended by the whole village. According to the -commands of the Vedic ritual, the mother was magnificently dressed, -and adorned with gold and jewels. Gokarna sacrificed a bull to Indra, -the flesh of which, after an offering to the gods, was partaken by -everybody. Then the ceremony of the parting of the hair was performed, -and texts were chanted by all the Brahmans. Only one event marred the -general gayety of the night. At the end of the prescribed ceremony, and -before the beginning of the feast, Gokarna, following custom, bade his -wife sing the merry festival song: “Taza ba Taza”. Kota, who had sat -silent and solemn through the entire ceremony, looked up at her husband -pleadingly, then opened her lips, uttered the first words of the song -in a hoarse and trembling tone, and suddenly burst into a torrent of -tears that no entreaty of her friends nor stern command of her husband -could still. This incident was considered an evil omen; but, in the -subsequent feast and merrymaking, it was quickly forgotten by all save -the poor little mother herself. - -After this, Kota did not appear again in public. Indeed, for the next -two moons she spent her time almost wholly on her bed, attended by -Jensa, and sometimes by Hilka, till, at length, January came. In the -last days, Gokarna suddenly became attentive, nay, almost tender, to -his wife. He was by nature neither demonstrative nor affectionate. -But the matter of his child touched the dominating note of his -nature:—pride. And he could not but be interested in the person who -had power to present him with sons to whom he could hand down his -state and dignity. Gokarna was inordinately anxious for a son. Though -his dispassionate nature rebelled bitterly at the thought, he was -determined that, should this child prove to be a girl, he would take -another wife. Meantime, however, Kota was the object of his highest -interest; and not a little was she astonished when he left the -conducting of the full-moon sacrifices to an under-priest, that he -might stay beside her. He wished to talk with her of the child. But -Kota’s three years of wedded life had not prepared her to confide her -secret thoughts to her husband, and he got surprisingly little from her -on the subject nearest both of them. His conclusion was that she was -like all women:—too stupid to think. But had Kota chosen, she could -have disclosed to him a little wonder-world of motherhood that would -have opened his eyes anew to womankind. Melancholy she had been. Now -she was full of dread. Nevertheless, the sacred love was in her; and, -in her brighter hours, she had given her child all the tenderness of -hope, all the ambitions and desires for its welfare, that her stunted -womanhood could conjure up. For the first years of its life, at least, -the baby would be her own to love and to rule. Her heart would have -something to cling to. The dry dust of her existence was about to -put forth flowers and foliage at last. But of such thoughts, and the -joy in them, she could tell Gokarna nothing, as he sat beside her -mat-bed in mid-January of that year 1207. He could only make ceaseless -inquiries as to her welfare; and, toward nightfall, he was rewarded -by her suddenly sitting up, and crying to him to send at once for the -low-caste nurse who was to attend her in the coming hours. - -These hours were terrible enough, even to the emotionless Gokarna. -Religion forbade his remaining with his wife, or allowing any but the -woman of special caste to behold her. All he could do was to sit in the -room next to that in which she lay, kindle a sacrificial fire, repeat -over it certain prescribed Vedic texts, and listen anxiously to the -sounds issuing from the neighboring room. This lasted an unconscionable -time. Then, when the night was at its most solemn ebb, the moaning and -sobbing suddenly ceased, and silence fell on the priest’s house. This -stillness was far more terrible than the noise had been. Gokarna’s -unemotional nature was stirred to its very depths. Should he brave the -Vedas—and go to her? While he waited, straining his ears, a new sound -came:—a faint, baby wail that pierced the heart of the man and caused -him to start joyously to his feet. A moment later the hanging before -the doorway was pushed aside, and the nurse appeared, holding in her -arms the child, wrapped in a piece of cotton cloth. For a second, -Gokarna stood still, choking with hope. Then he ran forward, and put -his hands on the tiny form: - -“Is it—is it a boy? Speak!” he said. - -The nurse answered not a word, but laid the child in his arms. - - * * * * * - -Not until noon the next day did Gokarna enter the room where his wife -lay. Kota, on the bed, with the baby beside her, started up as he -entered. But the words on her lips were stopped by his look. - -“In the name of the gods, Kota, I give greeting to thee—and to my son. -My son,” he repeated, slowly, his eyes fixed upon the face of his wife, -whose frightened expression did not diminish. “And thou,” he continued, -turning to the nurse who stood at hand, listening intently, “see that, -on penalty of banishment, thou prate to none concerning the matters of -this house. I am now come to perform the ceremony of the breathing and -the secret name. Therefore depart, woman, from the room, nor return -until I summon thee.” - -The nurse, alarmed at his tone, made a hasty exit; and Gokarna turned -again to his wife. Nor did he say another word on the subject nearest -both their hearts. Immediately he took the child from its mother’s -arms, at which it protested, with lusty voice, Kota watching it the -while with tenderest mother-eyes. Gokarna, holding the child up before -him, breathed three times upon it, and murmured: “Draw in thy breath -with the _Rik_, breathe within the _Yagus_, breathe forth -with the _Saman_.” - -Then, handing the babe for a moment back to its mother, he left the -room, shortly returning with the articles of daily sacrifice:—honey, -melted butter, and barley mixed together in a small earthen dish, in -which stood also a spoon of beaten silver. Placing these on the floor -beside the bed, he seated himself, took the child again, and looked up -to Kota. “The name,” he said. “Find thou the omen for our name for him.” - -Kota stirred uneasily. “Hark!” she said, listening, “what do they sing -there without:—what song?” - -Somewhere in the village a chant was sounding, the words as yet -indistinct, but becoming gradually louder, till a little procession -passed Gokarna’s house, uttering these words, over their heavy and -sorrowful burden: - - “Call on Rama! Call to Rama! - Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama! - For this dead - Whom we bring, - Call aloud to mighty Rama!” - -“Rama!” echoed Kota, tremulously. “God of death!—Alas! Alas! That is -the omen.” - -“It is surely an evil omen that a funeral should pass the house of -the new-born. Yet Rama is a god. He must be honored. Let the secret -name of the child be ‘Ramasarman.’ There are the four, holy Brahmanic -syllables. ‘Ramasarman.’ Say it with me, Kota.” - -And the mother, with tears in her eyes and in her voice, repeated with -her husband the words that gave her first-born a secret name of death. -And when this ceremony was over, receiving the baby once more into -her arms, she wept over it, quietly and persistently, throughout the -afternoon. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - OMAN THE CHILD - - -It was thus that the child of the head-man and high priest of Bul-Ruknu -entered the world and found his place there. But his subsequent baby -days did not bear out the dreary omens of the first. The whole town, -and a throng of farmers from the rice-fields to the north, were -present at the ceremony of the public christening of the child, who -was named Oman, and was thenceforward regarded by the village as their -prospective head and ruler. As such he became at once an important -little person, both in the community and in his father’s house. - -Having been born a Brahman, Oman’s first year was punctuated with -ceremonies prescribed for every minutest change in his little -existence. In his sixth month, at the first feeding with solid food, -upon which the character of his future career was supposed to depend, -he was given, not rice, to bring him splendor; nor beef, to bring -him power; nor fish, to bring him swiftness; nor goat’s flesh, for a -fine physique; but a bit of white partridge breast, which is said to -confer upon a child the gift of mental purity. And from this time on, -every step in his education was for the purpose of making him a worthy -successor to his ascetic father. From his earliest babyhood he was -trained in rigorous ways of propriety and grave conduct. Much speech, -inarticulate or otherwise, was not sanctioned in Gokarna’s presence; -nor did the father sympathetically regard the manufacture of mud-pies, -or even the jingling of Kota’s ankle-bells and bracelets. The delights -of babyhood were indulged in secret, at times when Kota’s warm-hearted -motherhood overcame the unceasing dread of her husband; and she and the -baby found amusements that delighted them equally. - -During the first three years of his life, Oman certainly gave no -evidence of unusual characteristics. When he was two, and his mother -nineteen, a girl was born into the family of the high priest, which -fact, however, in no way diminished Oman’s importance. He was now at -a delightful age; and even Gokarna sometimes fell from dignity and -allowed his son to drag himself to his feet by aid of the paternal leg, -and then, by means of the same member, permitted himself to be urged -out to witness the antics of some badgered kitten, or peep into the -first home of half a dozen tumbling puppies; which creatures the child -never molested, but would watch by the hour with solemn delight. - -In his third year, little Oman underwent the ceremony of the -_Kudakarman_, or tonsure, by which his rough and tumbly black -hair was clipped close to his head, and thenceforth kept so:—a very -comfortable bit of religion, considering the climate of Bul-Ruknu. This -concluded the ceremonies of babyhood, and was the last he should have -to undergo till the day of the great initiation, or second birth, when -he would become a true Brahman, a student of the Vedas. - -This period, from his third to his eighth year, was the happiest and -freest of his life. He was now emancipated from the close supervision -of his mother, and allowed to go forth alone to explore the wonders -and the glories of the town. All the simple and unfathomable joys of -childhood were there, awaiting his pleasure. First of all were the -children; for Bul-Ruknu swarmed with them; and, boy and girl, Brahman -or Sudra, they were turned out to live in the streets till it came -time for them to take up the duties of life:—the boys, from seven to -twelve, to begin their Vedic studies or their slavery; the girls, from -ten to fourteen, to marry. Little Oman, so far brought up to the most -rigid solitude, now entered the world, and found hordes of his own kind -awaiting him. Forthwith he offered himself to them. They accepted him -readily into their numbers, and let him find his own place there. They -ranked him nowhere, for their spirit was entirely democratic. They were -the only species of Indian humanity that did not, openly or secretly, -recognize caste. With them, it was not a Brahman who must lead, but the -boy who could fight best; it was not the girl of wealthiest parents -that was most popular, but she that had greatest talent for making -dolls out of straw and rags. - -Among his kind Oman did not make astonishing progress. He proved -gentle and quiet, and made friends, in a mute sort of way, with those -of his own age or a little younger. He never attempted leadership. -As a matter of fact, such an idea did not occur to him. But he was -thoroughly intolerant of any sort of ruling. The boy that tried to -command his occupations, he regarded with astonished disapproval, -immediately renouncing the acquaintance of the would-be general. He -never fought,—had, indeed, been known to run away from the scene of a -struggle, and hide himself till it was over. Yet his spirit was not -generally considered cowardly. The result of this course was that, -gradually, Oman gathered around him a handful of little folk like -himself, among whom he always felt at liberty to do what he liked. -They were an odd little band. Among them were no concerted plans of -action, no organized raids, hardly even general games. Each child, -occupied with some pursuit of his or her own, would simply carry it on -in the proximity of others, because the feeling of companionship was -pleasant. Oman, indeed, after the first novelty of it had worn off, -did not always remain with his fellows. There were many things that he -found it eminently pleasant to do alone. For him the town held ever -fresh delights. He knew every donkey that came to the weekly bazaar. -He was also on friendly terms with the troops of dogs, the cats, and -the chickens of his immediate neighborhood. Animals liked him, and he -returned their affection with warm appreciation. Nor was he ever known -to harm, or even so much as startle, any living thing. And this extreme -gentleness was perhaps his most distinguishing characteristic. - -In due time this child of high future approached his eighth birthday, -and, at that early age, entered upon the rigorous life of the Snataka, -or student of the Vedas. The ceremony of second birth, investiture -with the sacred cord of the Brahman, was the most important event of -his life, since he was universally looked upon as the successor of his -father, the future high priest of the village. The girdle of Menga -grass was fastened round his waist and the cord knotted over his left -shoulder. Into his hand they put a staff made of the polished bilva -wood prescribed for the Brahman student. Aside from these things, and -the single cotton garment that he wore, all the possessions that had -been his in the world were supposed to belong to his teacher, who was a -priest under Gokarna, a man named Asvarman, who had taken four pupils, -of whom Oman was the youngest. - -It was at this time of the first separation from her oldest child that -Kota brought into the world a new son, who, for the time being, took -up all her thoughts. And from the hour of this boy’s birth, Oman’s -prospects, though he was unaware of the fact, assumed a different -aspect. His career depended now upon his own abilities; for he was no -longer indispensable to the ambitions of his father. - -When a Hindoo boy begins his studentship, which lasts for an -indeterminate number of years, he is no longer regarded as an inmate -of his father’s house, but is wholly under the supervision of his -instructor, and is supposed to beg his food and lodging from persons -charitably inclined. As a general rule, the boy still eats at home; -but his meals are given him not in the name of relationship, but as -a charity asked for the sake of the gods. Beside this quasi-exile, -Oman found his life a very different matter from the former free -and comfortable existence. No longer could he call a single hour -of the day his own. His initiation as a student had taken place in -the early spring of the year 1215, and was immediately followed by -the great _Sravana_ festival for the planting of crops and the -_Adhya-Yopa-Karman_, or opening of the course of study. His part -in the religious ceremonies lasted for a week, during which time there -was much fasting and little sleep. Then, on the new-moon day of the -month of March, began the routine that was to last, almost unbroken, -for five years. - -Every morning, between dawn and sunrise, Oman and his three -fellow-students assembled in the broad, sandy square near the apology -of a temple to Siva, and there replenished the sacrificial fires, -which were never extinguished. When the blaze was high and the sun had -reached the horizon, Asvarman would make his appearance, and, seating -himself before a fire with his face to the east, his pupils opposite -him on the other side of the blaze, would begin the morning recitation -of prayers—a dozen verses of the Rig-Veda, already familiar to the -boys. After this, the students were instructed in Pâli texts, generally -committing to heart each sentence as it was read. At noon they were -dismissed to beg a meal in the village; and, early in the afternoon, -they returned to continue their study, which lasted till sunset, when -the evening Agnihotra was performed and they were dismissed for the -night, burdened with an endless list of rules which they must not break -on pain of penance. The only relief from this monotonous existence came -on Uposatha days:—days of sacrifice to the new or the full moon; and -certain sacred festival days, when ceremonial took the place of the -usual study. - -In a year, by means of this persistent application, the boys were able -to read with tolerable fluency, both in Pâli and in Sanscrit. But the -rigor of their labors was not lessened thereby. Rather, instruction now -took a severer turn; for, young as they were, the little students were -of Brahman birth, and, therefore, entitled to the highest education. -According to the law, Asvarman now began to expound to these pathetic -children the doctrines of the three mystic philosophies:—the Sankhya, -the Vedanta, and the Yoga—speculations of such profound abstraction -and such absolute intellectuality, that their effect on these childish -minds would have been amusing had it not been pitiable. Solemnly, with -his wide, unfathomable eyes fixed on the dull orbs of the priest, Oman, -now at the age of nine, informed his master that Nature was created -in order that the world-soul might become united with itself; that -contemplation is the soul’s highest duty till its time of liberation -from material fetters; and that only essence is infinite. - -Just how much of this found some sort of home in the boy’s young mind, -to reappear long years afterward with new meaning attached to it, it -were difficult to say. Probably it was at this time, and through the -agency of those vast philosophisms, that Oman’s double self began dimly -to be shadowed forth. By the time he was eleven, and had been for three -years a Snataka, he commenced in his own fashion to meditate, and, also -in his own fashion, to suffer. Much that had hitherto lain dormant -within him began to stir. He realized that he could scarcely fathom his -own state. There seemed to lie within him two distinct natures: the -one strong, non-combative, but self-rebellious; the other gentle, and -weak, and shrinking. Until now he had had no clear idea of this. He had -been all things at once. But the elements were beginning to resolve -themselves. He had moods, of longer or shorter duration, during which -one set of characteristics or the other seemed to dominate him. Half -the time he wondered at himself angrily for his indecisiveness. The -other half he shrank from self-analysis, and from any effort at study -as well. - -Immersed as he was in a self-conflict which he believed to be part -of everybody’s ordinary life, his attempts at understanding himself -tinctured all his thoughts, and his questions as to the philosophies -and their significance always bore a personal relation to himself and -his needs. Here he found not a little assistance. But with the Vedas -it was different. There was nothing there to apply in any way to the -inner life. The formal ritual, the Sutras, the Mantras, were all mere -objective texts. And, gradually, as he strove in vain to find in them -something personal, their meaningless intricacy impressed itself more -and more upon him. - -His life, at this time, was far from happy. He was closely bound, -even as to his thoughts; and he had really no freedom. His state was -almost constantly one of melancholy; but he was subject to violently -changeable points of view; and, in his continual secret analysis and -meditation, he endured the first pangs of loneliness. How strongly he -felt all this, it would be difficult to say. At the time, his existence -seemed to him overwhelming. Later on, he could remember it with -yearning, as holding a peace and a contentment that would never come -for him again. - -The years passed over the head of the boy, slowly for him, swiftly for -many around him; and when he was thirteen years old, and had been for -five years a Snataka, a heavy sickness came, and he was taken to the -home of his father, to be cared for there. He alone knew how, for many -days, his body and his mind were torn with strangest anguish. Dimly he -understood that the souls imprisoned in him were struggling mightily to -burst the bonds of flesh, and free themselves. Finally came the evening -that was always most vivid in his memory. - -Toward sunset he was carried out into the vine-walled veranda of the -house; and he felt that people—two, three, four—stood around him, -looking upon him. He heard murmurings and exclamations, which gradually -melted away; and then only his father and mother were there, standing -on either side of him; and he felt afraid, and wept, in misery. - -There, indeed, through the whole night, the man and the woman who had -brought him into the world stood over him in the agony of the crisis, -Kota shaken with sobs of affliction, Gokarna stiff and straight, hands -clenched, skin damp with sweat. There the father gave up his son, the -priest renounced his hope and his ambition. Lifting up his voice he -prayed Siva to take the life of Ramasarman; and this prayer the child, -and the mother of the child, dumbly echoed in their hearts. Yet, in the -clear, red light of dawn, the agony left Oman’s body, and his mind, -exhausted with a weight too terrible to bear, grew gradually quieter. -Kota and Gokarna, knowing nothing more to do, spent with weariness and -emotion, returned together in silence into the house, leaving Oman -alone in the half-light of early day. - -The child’s first sensation was one of extreme peace. Pain had left -him; and the eyes, half curious, half horrified, that had watched -him through the night, were gone. The early air came fresh and sweet -to his dry lips; and it seemed to act on him as a powerful narcotic. -He grew languorous and drowsy. The spirit within him was still; yet, -somewhere, there was a tension. He could not quite give himself up -to insensibility. Was it habit:—the old sense of rising at this hour -to prepare the sacrifice? Not that. The Vedic ritual, and all its -infinite detail, lay quite outside his path just now. No; it was -rather a curious sense of expectation, of waiting for something to -come—what, he neither knew nor asked. But the waiting was not long. -From out of that clear, vermilion dawn-light, came flying a tiny, gray -bird,—Spirit-bird, Hindoos call it,—slender-necked, clean-winged. This, -hovering for an instant about the entrance to the veranda, darted -suddenly in and plunged, quivering, into Oman’s breast. - -The boy gave a faint cry—expressive of unutterable things—and laid his -two hands with greatest gentleness upon the soft feathers, caressing -the creature, and uttering to it little, inarticulate sounds. With the -coming of this bird it was as if his being was suddenly complete. Now, -for the moment, happy with a happiness that is beyond mortals, still -clasping to his breast the feathered thing, which, under his touch, lay -perfectly still, he closed his hot and aching eyes and slept. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - HIS SOLITUDE - - -When Oman woke, the sun was high in the heavens, and the bird had -gone. During his sleep some one—his mother, doubtless—had covered him -with a pliable mat, and had placed something soft under his head. Full -consciousness returned by degrees. A sense of physical discomfort was -the first thing he knew. Then came a faint memory of what had happened -before the dawn. Sunrise and the bird were inextricably mingled in -his mind. In his heart he believed that the bird and the peace it -brought had been a dream. Now that he was fully awake, there was no -peace. He was hot with fever; and soon his body began to ache again, -with a dull, numb pain that was hard to bear in silence. Moreover, he -panted for water. It was not long, however, before Kota came out into -the veranda, her little boy clinging to her skirts and retarding her -progress. Disengaging the child, who fell backward disconsolately, she -bent over the sick one, felt the burning of his hands and head, drew -from him confession of his pain and also of his hunger and thirst, and -at once retired into the house, to return in a few moments with a bowl -of millet and milk. She found the baby sitting beside Oman, who was -talking to it in his mellow, gentle voice. Kota hastily set the bowl -upon the ground, picked up the baby, carried him inside, and, on coming -back once more, found Oman lying on his face, shaken with sobs; nor -could she, for a long time, persuade him to turn his face to the light -and take the nourishment he needed. - -Despite his mother’s furtively loving care, and the cessation of his -exacting duties, Oman did not grow better of his sickness. Instead, -his fever increased till delirium came, and for days he was out of -his mind. In his times of pain he would become violent, screaming -and struggling when any one approached him. He talked much. Snatches -of Vedic text, old Sutras and Mantras, philosophical premises, and -suggestions of his own self-struggle were jumbled together in wildest -chaos. Gokarna, dreading to have a woman’s ears hear the holy words -that are forbidden to women, dreading still more the alternative of -a masculine Sudra nurse, sure to carry gossip, had Oman carefully -guarded and tended within the house. In his heart, the father, bitter -with grief and worse than grief at the outcome of Oman’s student-life, -repeated many times his prayer for the child’s death; and had he been -in a state to realize anything, Oman would have echoed that prayer with -all his heart. - -Desire, however, was vain. For four weeks Oman lay fever-stricken, and -then, suddenly, began to convalesce, and in a fortnight more was about -as usual. Spring was now nearly gone, and summer, with its murderous -heat, upon the town again. The crops were up, and the business of -irrigation begun in the fields; for all the luxuriant foliage of the -wild was withered and dry, parched for the rains that were not yet to -come for a month or more. Among the townsfolk, in the evening, the -great subject of gossip was always: “The Child of Gokarna—called Oman.” -“He has given up the life of the Snataka.” “No more does he study the -sacred books.” “Yet the ceremony of the cessation of study has not -taken place.” “Ah, yes, something is wrong. It is very strange.” - -Oman still wore the sacred cord of the Brahman. How should he, knowing -so much of the holy Vedas, remove it? But he moved through his native -town a wanderer, an outcast, addressing none of the townspeople, who -would scarcely have answered him for fear of defiling their caste. How -this situation had come about, Oman could not have told. It had been a -gradual and natural growth. During his convalescence it had occurred -to him that his father and mother were ashamed of him. This idea he -tested in various ways, and found it to be true. Up to that time he -had been ashamed of himself: furiously, bitterly rebellious concerning -his weakness. But now, at once, the spirit of self-protection rose hot -within him. Others, his own parents, were ashamed of him. Should he -turn against himself? Never. The masculine instinct of self-defence -turned inward toward that other timid, shrinking nature that he longed -so to conceal. And when, at length, he was about again, his parents -found him wrapped in an impenetrable mantle of—was it pride?—was -it stupidity?—was it temper?—arrogance? He was unapproachable and -unsociable. He took not the slightest notice of those around him, never -speaking of his own accord, and doing his best to prevent the address -of others. - -Gokarna held many periods of self-communion with himself as to his duty -toward this child, and especially about the matter of the sacred cord. -But time passed, and no special action was taken. Oman seemed to have -marked out his life for himself; and the father, bewildered, let him -pursue the course he would, and finally ceased to torment himself with -questions. - -Through the rainy season, Oman spent most of his time close to his -father’s house. There was a place for him there, such as it was, -where he was never molested. In the first weeks of his recovery, his -over-worked mind found some delight in simple freedom from burdensome -tasks. Idleness, silence, absence of rules and binding regulations, -were sweet to him. He had the true Hindoo faculty for dreams, and would -sit for hours lost in contemplation of unknowable and unfathomable -things. Little objects—the bluish curl of smoke over a house-roof, -the distant, flickering flame of sacrificial fires at dusk, a flight -of heron toward the southern hills, the notes of the bulbul or the -koïl—such things brought him infinite pleasure, and formed subjects for -long contemplation. These were the periods when his mind was freest -from its burden. But there were hours—days—weeks, when the world gave -nothing to him; when melancholy held him for her own. At these times -life seemed a burden too terrible for any mortal, and the continuance -of such suffering as his, a thing beyond the endurance of spirits of -the blessed. - -When the rains were over, and August came in, Oman began to spend much -time wandering through the countryside, returning to the village only -to eat and sleep:—sometimes not that. The country around Bul-Ruknu was -broken, fertile, and unusually picturesque for India. To the east and -southeast, at a distance of three or four miles, rose the northernmost -hills of the Vindhya range, which extended thence, southward, to the -Narmáda plain, fifty miles away. To the north and west were stretches -of fertile fields, fringed with woods, and watered by a little stream -fed by mountain brooks and springs, that went meandering through -bottom-lands, and was used by farmers for purposes of irrigation. -Very early in the course of his wanderings, Oman came upon this -little river. During his childhood he had exhibited the curious trait -of marked aversion to running water; but he found now that the old -dread of it lingered only in a half-fascinating fear lest some day, -out of very wantonness, he should plunge into the little stream and -resistlessly let himself be overwhelmed in its lucent depths. This -fascination did not diminish with time. He loved to explore its -windings through the countryside, and follow it up a little way into -its mountain fastnesses. In the hills, one day, he came upon a shadowy -glade, turfed with kusa-grass and canopied with a giant banyan grove, a -tree of a hundred trunks, that overspread two acres of ground. Here, in -the green twilight, in a spot to which human beings never penetrated, -Oman found his haven:—a haven of solitude where, for three or four -years, he spent the greater part of his time. - -Of the struggles, the wretched inward conflicts of this isolated -mortal developing alone, unaided, avoided by humankind, it were -terrible to speak. Physical maturity had come before the mental; and -it was here, in this scene of lonely beauty, that he passed through -the first, fierce stages of the new awakening. He was most miserably -human; and all the faults of humanity raged within him, unrestrained -and uncomprehended. He yearned constantly for that of which he could -know nothing; and, helpless and half-mad, he was tossed upon a sea -of morbid and lonely imaginings. At such times, the fact that he was -an outcast seemed to him hideous and impossible. Rebelling, he would -rise up and curse himself and the God of his creation. Then, when he -had spent himself in tragical invective, the other side of him would -take possession of his mind, and he would melt into tremulous weeping: -weeping so piteous, so forlorn, that it would have melted the heart of -any woman hearing it. Again, Oman was filled with a gentle and eager -desire for something on which to expend affection:—a dog, a kitten, a -bird,—any living thing that would accept his love. But nothing came to -him. It seemed as if the very beasts avoided his haunts. A few apes -were occasionally seen within the banyan grove; but no other living -thing passed through there, nor even a snake slept in the shadow of -its stones. Yet the hills beyond were alive with wild creatures. -By night lions cried through the great darkness. Immense troops of -monkeys chattered in the trees. Both the tiger and the bear dwelt in -the ravines; and the buffalo and antelope found pasturage on sunny -hillsides. The steepest crags were the resort of myriad wild goats, and -birds of all kinds winged their way over the heights and found their -nests by hundreds in the jungle trees. But in the midst of all this -wild, free life, Oman dwelt alone, unsought, lost in the wilderness of -his solitude. - -How, through three long years, he managed so to occupy his mind as to -keep at bay the madness that besets the absolutely solitary, he himself -knew best. Probably the first months seemed longest. The hours were -dismissed, one by one, while he busied himself over little things; for, -at his age, he was not able to create a systematic pursuit. His mind -worked in unaccustomed spheres, conning, vaguely and indefinitely, -problems that put him at a more or less safe distance from himself. -In time, the atmosphere of the deep banyan shade, with the near -tinkling and flashing of the brook, and the dim, greenish sunlight -that slipped through the interwoven foliage, became so beautifully -familiar that it was home to him. He bathed and floated in the chilly -water, and afterwards kindled a sacrificial fire and sat before it on -his knees, delighting in the high-leaping flames, feeling that the -play of the two elements satisfied his bent of mind. And during this -time, by unconscious cerebration, what Oman had learned in his five -years of studentship, all that mass of inert, half-decayed knowledge, -concentrated into living truths that fixed themselves firmly in his -brain and lay waiting to be used. Something further still came out of -the solitude:—a self-dependence, a strength, and a fortitude without -which, at a later period, he could not have lived. - -Thus, until his sixteenth year, Oman spent his days. Then a change came -upon him, and he felt this life unendurable. Insensibly, a scene from -one of the old, heroic epics that he had read in his student days, came -to him, fastened itself in his mind, and would not be dislodged. It was -the picture of the “Sinner’s Road”, described with ghastly vividness by -a long-dead writer: - - “A burning forest shut the roadside in - On either hand; and mid its crackling boughs - Perched ghastly birds—or flapped among the flames— - Vultures and kites and crows, with brazen plumes - And beaks of iron; and these grisly fowl - Screamed to the shrieks of Prets, lean, famished ghosts, - Featureless, eyeless, having pin-point mouths - That hungered, but were never full.” - -Here, in the land where these dim spirits dwelt, Oman, in perilous -despair, beheld himself. He must die as he had lived, and live in death -as he had lived in life—miserable, desolate, desperate, without hope of -betterment. And then, as the days scourged him, he was finally driven -to take a stand, for sanity’s sake. Thus, one noontide, he girded -himself up and returned to Bul-Ruknu, and there, within his father’s -house, sought an interview with Gokarna. - -It was a long and solemn talk. Since the days of his sickness, three -years before, Oman and his father had spoken scarcely a dozen words -together. True, he usually slept at home, and his mother always left -him food for the day in a corner of the veranda. But he was not of his -family. In the village he had come to be looked on as a recluse, almost -a hermit; and as such was in some measure respected. Now, however, Oman -had come to demand one of two things: speedy death, or a place in the -world. Gokarna was taken aback, demurred, finally offered his son a -menial position among the priests, which Oman straightway refused. - -“My brain is sick of religion and the gods. My power of worship is -spent. Let me work.” - -“Work! You are a Brahman.” - -“Thou knowest I am not—cannot be.” - -Gokarna glared at him, and muttered some sort of insult; whereupon Oman -rose and left his father, and within twelve hours apprenticed himself -to a weaver in the town, thereby renouncing caste and becoming one of -the Vaisyas, the lowest order to whom was granted the right of re-birth -and investiture with the sacred cord. Yet, in the village, Oman was -now regarded as a privileged being; and, after a week of banishment -from his home, during which time he worked steadily and well, Kota went -to him, and begged him to return to his father’s house, to sleep and -eat as he had been wont to do; and when Gokarna sent a message to the -same effect, Oman, for his mother’s sake, consented, and resumed the -old relations with his people. He could not, of course, eat in their -presence, nor sleep in the same room with one of them, nor take part in -the Agnihotra. But at night he was there, in the veranda, as of old; -and the heart of his mother was at peace. - -Now, in the endless sunshine, Oman Ramasarman worked at his trade: -first combing and carding the wool, later dyeing it, then learning how -to mix the different threads for warp and woof, and finally sitting -down to the loom, where, under his skilful manipulation, the cloth was -turned off, smooth and strong and useful. And now, at last, Oman’s -thoughts were taken from himself, and he was like a busy child, playing -at work, working at play, till two swift years had rolled round again, -and it was the spring of the year 1224, with Oman in his eighteenth -year of expiative life. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - HUSHKA IN THE MARKET-PLACE - - -It was spring. The Sravana sacrifices were over. Farmers had finished -their planting, and the world ran with life. As yet, there was no -presage of summer heat. The nights were cool, and the mornings soft as -in winter. But the new foliage was delicately bright, and more tender -flowers had come to join the perpetual blossoms. Almond and apricot -trees were in bloom; and the breeze was perfumed with orchard breaths. -The mongoose and the turtle began their rovings. There was an air of -love and liberty in all things; and the heart of Oman was filled with -suppressed yearning. He worked as steadily as usual; but his thoughts -went wandering. For the first time since the day he had left the banyan -grove, he desired solitude. But it was solitude in a new form. He felt -in him the longing to wander, to roam the land, to penetrate distant -places that he had heard of:—great cities and fair plains, where -historic men had dwelt. - -Gradually he fell into the habit of dreaming over this new ambition; -and by degrees strange pictures rose up before him:—pictures of places -that he had seen and known, somewhere, somehow, perhaps only as myths -in an epic, perhaps actually, in an old life. And with these pictures -was always the unattainable—a golden thread, running in and out of -all his dreams: the thought of that which he already had perceived to -soften the whole world,—love—the love of man for woman, the love of -woman for man. And dangerous as this brooding was, it grew so dear to -him that he could not relinquish it, but cherished it, secretly, as a -gift from the high gods. - -There came an evening when he betrayed his thoughts, involuntarily, -resistlessly, to the one being in the world who would try to understand -them. And forever after he rejoiced that he had done so. He was sitting -alone in the veranda of Gokarna’s house, waiting for his meal of -millet-cakes and milk, which Kota presently brought. Then, when she -had laid it before him, she walked slowly over to the veranda entrance -and seated herself there, and looked off upon the swift-falling dusk. -In the misty radiance of the sunset, still more under the spell of the -rising night, spangled with white stars, the little village of mud and -straw lost its marks of poverty and squalor, and was softened into a -dream-city, of ineffable delicacy. As they sat looking out upon it -now, the thoughts of mother and son were alike, except that Oman was -regretting what he could never have, and Kota that which had not been -given her, for Gokarna was not such a man as the springtime loves. But -mother and son felt a sympathy with each other, and, under this sense, -the nature of each expanded. - -“Ah, it is one of Krishna’s nights,” murmured Kota, dreamily. - -For answer, Oman sighed; and the sigh came from his soul. - -Kota turned and looked at the young man. Hitherto, Oman’s heart had -been strange to her; she had never thought of questioning the workings -of his brain. Now, suddenly, his humanity was apparent; and her heart -went out to his human sorrow as she asked, gently: “Dost thou mourn, -Oman?” - -Oman, for whom no human voice had ever taken on this tone, felt a throb -of gratitude. But he answered: “I do not mourn, mother. I do not mourn. -And yet it is the time of love; and for me there is no love.” - -Though caste forbade it, she went over and sat down at his side, and -took his two hands in hers. “Thinkest thou there is none to love thee?” -she asked, tenderly. - -Oman’s head drooped to his knees; and, resting it there, he let some -part of his sorrow find expression for the woman, and her tears rained -down with his, while, forgetting all but her motherhood, she clasped -him to her heart. - -After Oman’s emotion had spent itself, and he had become quiet, Kota -remained at his side, and together they looked off upon the village, -over which the half-grown moon was now shedding a bluish silver light. -The two sat silent, watching, till the moon was past mid-heaven, and -halfway down the sky. Gokarna had not returned. He would evidently -sleep that night with the snatakas and priests in the square of -sacrifice. But at last Kota, rising reluctantly, left the night behind, -and sought her rest in the house, while Oman lay down in his accustomed -corner of the veranda, and, after a little, slept. - -When he opened his eyes again, the sun was nearly in mid-sky. He would -unquestionably get a beating from the master weaver, when he reached -his loom. However, it must be faced; and, without pausing for food, -he rose, thinking to make his ablutions at a fountain on the way. -Reaching the veranda step, however, he paused. A man was standing -there, silently: a man clad in mud-stained yellow robes, holding in his -hand a wooden bowl. Oman looked at him with some curiosity. A century -or two before, such men had overrun all India. Now, so rarely was -one seen that he was an object of interest to every beholder. In the -days when the wild Brahmanic leader, Kumarila Bhatta, had raised his -brethren against the Buddhists, it had been death to this man to stand -thus at a Brahman’s door; for, unquestionably, he was a Bhikkhu, a -Buddhist mendicant monk, come out of Bágh, the one remaining stronghold -of Buddhism in Malwa, one of the few left in all India. And the man -stood here, quite still, silently asking alms. Pity and curiosity were -nowadays the only sentiments with which even Brahmans regarded these -harmless men. And Oman, after a moment’s halt, would have hurried on, -but that he caught the expression in the wanderer’s eyes, and paused to -look again. - -Certainly it was a remarkable face. The eyes were very large, and dark, -and long-lashed; and the look in them was such as one finds in oxen. -The man’s body was lean to emaciation; but his face, owing to the -round-cut hair, had more or less of a full appearance. His robes—which -he wore in the regular Buddhist manner, over the left shoulder, under -the right, and reaching to the heels,—were well worn, as were his -sandals, and the knotty, wooden staff in his hand. On his back was -a small bundle, fastened with a rope; and this, with an alms-bowl, -completed his equipment for the eight months’ yearly pilgrimage -prescribed for every Bhikkhu. - -When his swift scrutiny was ended, Oman, following a sudden impulse, -went a little closer to the man, and said, gently: “Peace to your -heart, reverend sir. Let me fill your bowl with food.” - -The Bhikkhu bowed, and silently handed his dish to the young man, -regarding him the while with grave scrutiny. Oman carried the bowl -inside, and requested his mother to fill it with whatever was at hand. -Kota, decidedly taken aback, complied with the request, albeit it was -the first Buddhist bowl ever filled in that Brahman household. Kota -prepared a dish for her son at the same time; and Oman carried them -both outside. The monk received his with humble thanks; and, squatting -on the ground where he was, without prayer or ceremony began his meal. -Oman watched him for a moment, and concluded that, since he was already -half a day late, another hour would make little difference. So he sat -down at some distance from the stranger, and himself began to eat. They -finished at the same time, and, rising, faced each other inquiringly. -This time it was the monk who spoke. - -“For thine alms, I give thee thanks. One favor more I will ask of thee. -Tell me in what direction lies the bazaar; for thither I must go to -preach Dharma[5] to the people.” - - [5] Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law. - -“O Bhikkhu, on my way to work I shall pass through the bazaar. If you -will walk with me, I will lead you thither.” - -The monk looked astonished at this civility, but agreed at once to the -proposal; and, Oman having left his dish on the veranda, they started -down the winding street in the direction of the market-place. As they -went, they talked, scatteringly, and Oman found himself listening -with delight to the low, mellow tones of his companion’s voice. The -Bhikkhu’s name, he found, was Hushka. He was now returning from his -pilgrimage and on his way to Bágh, where he was to spend the summer -months, the Yassa season, in one of the Viharas there. - -When they reached the bazaar, they found in it a busy throng of men -and women, buying, selling, shouting, laughing, wrangling, gossiping -together, each contributing in some way to the general tumult. Oman -wondered not a little how his companion was going to obtain hearing -here. Hushka, however, appeared as untroubled as if he had mounted -a platform before a respectfully attentive multitude; and Oman, -interested in the prospect, still lingered, watching his chance -acquaintance. - -First, the Bhikkhu reminded Oman of his own personal neglect, by going -to the fountain in the middle of the square, and carefully washing out -his alms-bowl. When it was cleaned and dried, he still stood, resting -one hand upon the stone, looking thoughtfully around him. One or two -people, passing, caught his eye, and halted, uncertainly. Then three or -four middle-aged and old men drew out of the throng and stood still, -close at hand. They were those that had a curiosity concerning the -dying faith: perhaps even, in their secret hearts, leaned a little -toward it; and usually availed themselves of each rare opportunity of -listening to the Dharma. - -Having now before him the nucleus of an audience, Hushka faced them, -his back to the fountain. Absently he stuck his flat bowl into the -pouch depending from his leathern girdle, fixing his eyes, the while, -upon Oman, who, fascinated by the man’s simplicity, still stood, apart -from the others, watching and waiting. And now the Buddhist lifted both -hands, clasped them high before him, and repeated, in tones of greatest -reverence, the Buddhist profession of faith, with which all mendicant -preachers were accustomed to begin their discourse: - -“‘Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata -(Buddha) explained. The great Sramana (Buddha) hath likewise explained -the causes of the cessation of existence.’” - -At these words, spoken in a low, melodious, monotonous voice, -addressed, not to the people, but, apparently, to Heaven, Oman, -unconscious of himself, took a step nearer to the speaker. After a -slight pause, Hushka, now removing his eyes from Oman’s face and using -them at discretion, began his sermon, choosing language that was clear -and simple, using figures calculated to appeal to the people, carrying -his hearers with him by means of his own personal magnetism, which -was never at so high a pitch as when he was engaged in this kind of -speaking. Gradually, his audience increased in numbers. The little -group of half a dozen became twelve, and then twenty, and then forty, -till the clamor in the market-place was strangely diminished, and -buyers and sellers alike stood still before the power of this wanderer -of alien and dying faith, surnamed, by his brethren of the Vihara, -“honey-throated”, and “golden-tongued”. - -And this was the nature of his address; these the words that he spoke: - -“Have you considered, O people, how all that we are is the result of -what we have thought? Our life is founded on our thoughts, made up -of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain -follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the -vehicle. - -“‘I am abused, miserable, receive not my due in the world.’ For him who -constantly harbors such thoughts, there is unending discontent. But for -him who reflects: ‘I am happy in living, for the world is a spot of joy -and beauty,’ discontent will cease forever. And so, also, hatred will -never cease by hatred. Hatred ceases through love. This is an old rule. -Again, he who lives seeking pleasures only, his senses unbridled, his -nature through indulgence growing idle and weak, him will Mara (the -tempter) overthrow, as the wind blows down a rotten tree. But for him -who lives to labor and to love his fellows, his senses controlled, his -appetites moderate, faithful and strong in his work, him Mara can no -more overthrow than the wind blows down a rocky mountain-peak. - -“Now I declare to you that truth is an image clearly to be seen only -by the pure in heart. And those that follow vain desires, imagine that -truth is untruth and see untruth in truth, and never arrive at truth. -But those whose aims are high, whose minds are unpolluted with vanity, -are able to distinguish between the false and the true, and delight in -truth. Therefore follow not after vanity nor the enjoyment of lusts; -for when ye have known truth for yourselves, therein will ye find great -joy. - -“Earnestness and meditation bring in their train serenity and -happiness. By earnestness did Indra rise to the lordship of the gods. -And he who delights in sincerity, who looks with fear upon hypocrisy, -moves about like fire, burning all his fetters; and he that has -conquered himself by reflection, is close upon Nirvana. - -“I would speak with you also concerning the tyranny of passion. For as -rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, so passion breaks through -the unfortified mind. Therefore it is necessary carefully to train the -mind, which is difficult to check and constantly rebellious, rushing -where it listeth. Yet, only a trained mind will bring happiness. Let -the wise man guard his thoughts, lest the torrent of passion, rushing -upon him, overwhelm him in its depths. The mind travels far, moves -about alone, without a body; and, to be freed from Mara, must often -hide in the chamber of the heart. But so long as man is under the -bondage of passion, so long is he exposed to the persuasions of Mara. -And so long as the desire of man toward woman, even the smallest, is -not destroyed, so long is his mind in bondage. Thou shalt also cut -out the love of thyself with thine own hand; for it is the greatest -tree in the forest of dangers. From its root springs desire. Its -foliage is wanton. From lust spring fear and grief; but he who is free -from lust knows not grief nor fear. Yet no man can free another from -these things. As by one’s self the evil is done, so by one’s self is -one purified. Is the struggle long? Is it lonely? Is it exceedingly -difficult? Fear not. By such measures only is serenity attained. -Well-makers lead the water where they will. Fletchers bend the arrow; -carpenters split a log of wood; but a good man doeth the greatest thing -of all, for he can fashion himself.” - -Hushka concluded his discourse quietly, with a benign smile flickering -from his eyes and just touching his lips. The holy law that he -preached to men never failed to affect himself, and to uplift him. -And this, probably, was the secret of his power. Certainly, if it -took some courage nowadays to preach the word of the Buddha in India, -the preacher found his reward; for his audiences were held fairly -spellbound during the ten or fifteen minutes of the discourse; and, -under the magic smoothness of the golden voice, the disjointed nature -of his preachment had passed unnoticed. After a moment or two of -silence, more complimentary than any applause, the little throng began -to break up, and, five minutes later, the noise of the market-place -was as deafening as before. The Bhikkhu, his work here finished, was -turning to depart, when he perceived his companion of the noontide -still standing near, apparently watching a chance to speak to him -again. Hushka gazed at him inquiringly, and Oman came up, but stood -silent and a little confused before him. - -“Is there any service that I can perform for thee?” asked Hushka, after -regarding him for a moment attentively. - -Oman again gazed deep into the large, gentle eyes; and with the look, -a thrill of joy ran through him. “Tell me, if you will, O Bhikkhu, if -your order practises this Dharma? Are all Buddhist brethren free from -desire and from the pain of discontent?” - -“It is our endeavor thus to free ourselves. We follow the teachings of -the great Master.” - -“Sramana-Gautama?” - -The Bhikkhu bowed his head. - -“There are many Jainists that come here, saying that they also worship -the Buddha truly—” - -“Jainists! Hypocrites!” for an instant, Hushka’s eyes flashed fire; but -he pressed his lips tightly together, and when he spoke again it was -quite calmly: “The Jainists are false Buddhists. The world has been -sadly overrun with hypocrisy; and they have been its devotees. They do -not follow Buddha, but Buddhaghosa; and their law is not our law, for -they do not possess the manuscripts of truth.” - -Oman nodded, and there was a pause. Then the youth, his heart beating -rapidly, his throat quite dry, asked: “What is required of those that -would join your order?” - -Hushka looked at him penetratingly, and said: “Come. Let us proceed out -of ear-shot of this tumult, where we may talk together in peace.” - -Willingly Oman complied; nor did either speak again till they were in -one of the least frequented of the village streets. Even then, Oman -hesitated to begin. He was in such an inward turmoil that he could not -think of words in which to express himself. After a little waiting, -Hushka spoke for him: - -“You have asked me, young man, what is required of one that wishes to -join our order. I answer you that nothing is required save the wish.” - -“But Sudras—outcasts—the once-born—do you accept these into the -brotherhood?” - -“In the eyes of the Sramana, any man and any woman may attain to -Arahatship.” - -“Women! Then there is no caste among you?” - -“Thus it is written in one of our sacred books: ‘A man does not become -a Brahmana by his family or by his birth. In whom there is truth and -righteousness, he is blessed, he is a Brahmana.’” - -It was the first time that Oman had dreamed of such a thing as a social -order without caste; and the idea was so overwhelming that for some -moments he was silent out of sheer amazement. All his preconceived -notions went whirling in his head while he strove to adjust himself -to this. Never, until this Bhikkhu had spoken in the market-place, -had he had any idea of a religion built solely for the help of human -frailty, and for the consolation of human sorrow. Now, what a vista -was suddenly opened before him! Small wonder that he shut his eyes to -the first radiant flood of light. That he could see anything at all of -the possibilities carried in Hushka’s words, was due to the fact of -his three years of bitter solitude and lonely meditation. After a few -moments, during which Hushka kept a wise silence, Oman asked slowly, -with a trembling that betrayed itself on his very lips: - -“Could—a weaver—a Vaisya—become one of you? Could I become a Bhikkhu?” - -“Art thou a weaver? I had thought thee Brahman born.” - -“That also is true. I was born a Brahman.” - -There was a short silence. Oman was sick now with dread of a next -question,—that never came. Hushka was turning certain matters rapidly -over in his mind. From the first, Oman’s intense interest in his words -had been a mystery to him. Converts to Buddhism were seldom made, in -this day. It was now most rarely that the Bhikkhus brought novices -back with them for the Vassa; and the few that came were almost always -of Sudra caste. Oman, on the other hand, was apparently of high -breeding; and only some unusual fact could have brought him into his -present situation. Hushka scented some misdeed, crime, perhaps, that -had put the youth into present bad standing. But the misdeed of a -Brahman was no Buddhist’s affair. To make him a convert was the chief -consideration; for had not the great Buddha received into his order men -of dark past? There was excellent precedent for what Hushka wished to -do. - -Later in his companionship with Oman, Hushka’s first suspicion of crime -was completely laid by the openness of his pupil’s behavior. But, in -justice to the Bhikkhu be it said, he had never, until the end, the -faintest suspicion of the real nature of Oman’s trouble. - -Many thoughts and much reasoning passed rapidly through Hushka’s mind; -and then he turned again to the youth, and said to him: “Thou hast -asked me if thou canst become a Bhikkhu. I answer thee—yes. But first -you must know something of our lives, and the purpose of them. Then, -understanding all that is to be renounced, if you would still join us, -I will myself give you the first ordination, the Pabbagga, and will -take you as my pupil. I will be your master, your Upagghaya; for I have -instructed many youths through their novitiate. Later, you will be -given the second, the highest ordination, Upasampada, and so become a -Bhikkhu. But first you must understand whither I would lead you.” - -“Tell me! Tell me,” besought Oman, looking into Hushka’s eyes, before -whose steady orbs his own suddenly fell. - -And so, while they walked, the Buddhist expounded to the lonely youth -the simple doctrines of the great religion: the renunciation of desire, -of pleasure, of indulgence in the flesh, and the growth of that -serenity that leads gradually to Nirvana, the great extinction. And the -plan of it all, the eightfold abstinence, the fourfold path, seemed -to Oman a perfect conception. The whole doctrine was, to his troubled -soul, like balm on a deep wound, a draught of water to one perishing -in the desert. And in his delight, he was freed from traditional -prejudice, and gave himself up entirely to the new companionship. - -Thus, through the whole afternoon, the two walked together, communing, -until, as the sun slipped under the western horizon, they paused -once more before the house of Gokarna. Hushka had reminded the young -man that his father and mother must be told of his wish to become -a Buddhist. Indeed, in the depths of his quiet mind, the Bhikkhu -apprehended insuperable difficulty here, yet knew that the matter -must be faced; and he let Oman decide the manner of its presentation. -To Hushka’s astonishment, Oman took it unquestioningly on himself, -asking Hushka to wait in the veranda while he went within to inform -his parents, or, in case Gokarna were absent, at least his mother, -of his great decision. Hushka made no protest, nor suggested his own -fitness to give a favorable impression concerning the Bhikkhu’s life. -Remembering Oman’s new-born enthusiasm and seeing in him no sign of -nervousness about approaching his guardians, Hushka reflected that -Oman might have been divinely fitted for this task. So, after a short -colloquy at the veranda step, the monk sat down in the vine-covered -retreat, and Oman went on into the house, where, contrary to his -expectation, he found both his father and his mother. - -For a long time Hushka sat there in the falling night, cross-legged, in -the manner of the Sakyamuni, his hands on his knees, his head resting -against the wall of the house, meditating. And while he indulged -himself in hope, there came, through the open doorway, the low, -monotonous murmur of voices. They were never raised above the ordinary -pitch; and this Hushka perceived with increasing satisfaction. Once or -twice there were to be heard a woman’s tones, followed always by the -musical voice of Oman, and the heavier baritone of Gokarna. But the -discussion, if discussion there were, was carried on in an entirely -matter-of-fact manner. - -During this time, outside, the hands of Nature had been at work, and -now the whole sky was robed in luminous, fleecy gray, strewn with -white stars, and crowned with the radiant half-moon, which shed silver -beams over the whole earth. The air was warm and fragrant with the -breath of spring. It was a night when the very atmosphere brought -intoxication. And gradually the expression of him sitting alone in the -veranda changed, and grew very sad; and a new light, one of sorrow and -yearning, shone in the depths of his large eyes. - -Now the murmur of voices inside the house ceased. Oman’s task was -accomplished. After a moment of silence the three came out of the -firelit room, into the cool and shadowy veranda. It was a second or -two before any one of them could see Hushka, who had risen, and slowly -moved forward to them. Then Gokarna also advanced, and spoke: - -“O Bhikkhu, Oman, my son, has told me that which my heart is sad to -hear. He wishes to receive from you Buddhist ordination and go forth as -your pupil.” - -Hushka bent his head once. “That is true. The young man came to me -after I had discoursed upon the Dharma in the market-place, and asked -that he might become my Saddhiviharika, to listen daily to the Dharma -and become versed in the way of the great life.” - -“So says my son; and, O Bhikkhu, so fervently doth he desire to enter -upon this life, that he hath won consent from us. So I bid you take him -for a pupil, and treat him with that forbearance that is a law of all -religions.” - -Hushka bent his head again. “Let it be thus,” he said solemnly. - -There was a stifled sob from Kota, who stood in the background, behind -her husband; and then Oman, who had embraced her, went forward to his -master, asking: “When shall I receive the ordination?” - -“When thou wilt. Any time is a proper time for the Pabbagga.” - -“Then let me be at once ordained, that we may set forth at an early -hour on the morrow.” - -“Come then into the moonlight here before the step, that each may look -upon the face of the other. Yet,”—he glanced toward Kota and Gokarna, -who still stood close at hand,—“yet we should not act in the presence -of any but followers of Gautama.” - -At this, the father and mother embraced Oman, and then, when Kota had -murmured to him that she should see him again in the morning, the two -retired for the night, leaving Oman and Hushka alone in the veranda. -Hushka was struggling with the bundle on his back, which Oman helped -him to remove. In it, wrapped in the mat used by Buddhists for many -purposes, lay a set of yellow robes, apparently new, yet mudstained to -a height of a foot above the hem. - -“Whence come the stains? And how dost thou carry this set of garments?” -queried Oman, delighted that he was at once to assume the dress of his -new faith. - -“Thus is it decreed that, in such emergencies as this, when we take a -pupil, we should have a robe for him. And the robes are stained with -earth, that no Bhikkhu or student shall vainly rejoice in his new -garment.” - -Laying aside the yellow robes, Hushka bound up his mat again, this time -putting the little bundle to one side, on the veranda. Then he said to -Oman: - -“Now must thou don this garb. It is our rule that the brethren shall -not look upon one another in the act of robing or disrobing; so I -turn my face from thee. Yet it will be necessary that I show thee the -required manner of passing the cloth about the upper part of the body -and over the left shoulder. Therefore, when the skirt is adjusted, call -me to thine assistance.” - -Oman nodded; but, as Hushka turned toward the other end of the veranda, -Oman, who, in loosening his usual tunic, had accidentally touched the -cord that he always wore, called out to Hushka: “The cord—the Brahman -cord—must it be put off?” - -“Let it remain,” answered Hushka, without turning around; and Oman in -his heart rejoiced. - -When he was dressed and Hushka had taught him the trick of fastening -the end of the yellow cloth under his arm, Oman declared himself ready -for the ordination. Thereupon Hushka, in a solemn tone, once more -repeated to him the laws of abstinence for a novice; and then, Oman -having faithfully promised to observe them all, Hushka bade him sit -down, cross-legged, somewhat after the manner of a Yogi, and, when he -had raised his clasped hands to a level with his eyes, caused him to -repeat slowly, three times, these words: - -“I take my refuge in the Buddha. I take my refuge in the Dharma. I take -my refuge in the Samgha (the community of brethren).” - -This said, Oman repeated after his preceptor the creed that he had -heard for the first time that morning: “Of all things proceeding from -cause, their causes hath the Tathagata explained. The Great Sramana -hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence. Let -him be forever worshipped.” - -With these simple words, the ordination was completed; but Oman still -remained in the half-kneeling, half-sitting position, motionless, -silent, a little pale. It was as if the repetition of the creed had -wrought a change in his whole being. He experienced an inexplicably -strong emotion, an emotion amazing to himself, perhaps not so much so -to Hushka, who stood looking down on him with the silver moonlight in -his gentle, dark eyes. Oman found himself gazing into those eyes as if -they had been of the Buddha himself. After a little, however, Hushka -broke the spell, saying, quietly: - -“Come, my pupil, let us seek our rest. On the morrow we must proceed -upon our way.” - -Oman rose at once, and followed his master to that end of the veranda -where he was wont to sleep. Here, dressed as they were, the two lay -down, some distance apart, with no covering but their yellow garments -and the sweet night air. Very soon Hushka’s breath came evenly and -long; and the other knew that he slept. But Oman closed his eyes in -vain. He could not sleep; nor, indeed, did he desire to. His heart was -full. It had come, at last, all that he had dreamed of. The impossible -was come to pass. On the morrow he was going out into the world,—out -into the broad, shining world, in the companionship of a man that did -not scorn him, with a faith in his heart that he loved, that loved him, -that had been decreed for him and all the scattered brethren of the -lonely life. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - YELLOW-ROBED - - -The moon had set before Oman finally lost himself in sleep. It seemed -to him that an hour could not possibly have passed when he felt a touch -on his brow, and, looking up, beheld Hushka bending over him. - -“Up—up—my Saddhiviharika! The new day is here. Let us renew our faith.” - -Oman, sleepy and confused, rose, and, following his master’s example, -knelt on one knee, lifted both his clasped hands, and repeated after -Hushka the short creed that he already knew by heart. Then the Bhikkhu, -rising, said: - -“Let us now go and cleanse ourselves at a fountain. Is that in the -market-place the nearest?” - -“No, my master. I will lead you to another, close at hand.” - -“Come, then. And, as we walk, see that thou meditate upon this thought, -which should now be with thee constantly: the extermination of desire -for earthly things. For it is written in the book of the law: ‘Leaving -all pleasures behind, calling nothing his own, let the wise man purge -himself of troubles of the mind’.” - -It was a fair morning. The sun was not yet above the horizon, but the -whole eastern sky glowed fiery crimson in the clear atmosphere. Gay -bird-notes filled the air; and a vagrant breeze shook the fragrance -from every jessamine and honeysuckle vine in Bul-Ruknu. It was an -ecstatic hour; and Hushka’s eyes were bright with the beauty of it when -he and Oman reached the well. As the young man filled Hushka’s bowl -with water, he turned to his master and said: - -“The day, sir, is very fair. Does the Dharma forbid us to rejoice in -the beauty of the dawn?” - -Hushka lowered his eyes, and answered softly: “We are told that the -extinction of feeling is the most desirable of all things. But, until -that comes, I think it can hurt no man to rejoice at the sight of a -sunrise sky.” - -Their ablutions over, the two returned to the house of Gokarna, and -found Kota standing in the veranda, anxiously awaiting them. She had -prepared two large dishes of rice—a great luxury—and, as soon as they -came up, bade them sit and eat. Oman helped his master to the fullest -portion, and then ate his own from the wooden bowl in which it had been -prepared. This dish Kota offered to her son, to be used for his alms; -and Hushka himself thanked her for the gift to his pupil. - -Oman, to his own surprise, found himself delaying the meal out of -sorrow at thought of leaving this home. He had never in his life -been more than twenty miles from Bul-Ruknu. Now, very probably, he -should never see the town again: never again look on his mother, his -father, or any of the familiar people among whom he had grown up. As -he reflected on this, the spoon dropped from his hand, and he bent his -head, conscious all the while that Hushka’s eyes were fixed on him. He -was blind with tears which he was struggling furiously not to shed, -when some one knelt beside him, and he felt two twining arms around his -neck, and a long kiss on his cheek. A thrill ran through his heart. -With passionate grief he returned his mother’s embrace. Then, breaking -suddenly from her clasp, a “Farewell!” choking in his throat, he ran -out of the veranda, down the street, and then halted, with clenched -hands, till Hushka should come. - -Presently the Bhikkhu joined him, walking rapidly; and Oman perceived -that in his face there was no ridicule; only a mute sympathy. He -carried with him the two bowls, each of which contained some rice -which, he explained, they would keep for their midday meal. Oman took -his own dish, asking to carry both, which he was not permitted to do. -Side by side they went, through the narrow and ill-kept streets of the -town, till at length they came to its outer wall, and passed out by -the gate called after the street along which they had come: the street -which, outside of Bul-Ruknu, became a public highway leading straight -up into the Vindhyas. - -“Ah! Go we up into the hills?” asked Oman, a note of joy in his voice. - -“From now till we reach Bágh we shall be almost constantly in the -hills. And there are nearly three months of journeying before the -Vassa[6] can be begun.” - - [6] Vassa: the customary sojourn in Viharas, or monasteries, from June - to October. - -“I am glad. The hills are a delight to me!” - -But no sooner had this simple thought escaped Oman’s lips, than he -repented of it; for he imagined that he should bring upon himself a -text commending the beauty of indifference to all things. But Hushka, -in the interval, had read his mind, and, smiling faintly, said: “Be not -afraid, Oman, that this religion will take from thee all thy delights. -Our lives, free from care, free from dread of the morrow, of any -concern for to-day, free from loneliness or the burdens of poverty, -want, and suffering, are almost wholly without pain; and this was the -great wish of the Buddha. We are taught to look charitably and kindly -on all living things, allowing each its place. And if, in our hearts, -we have cherished any evil thought toward any man, we are allowed the -relief of confessing it before the assembled Samgha. This frame of mind -is conducive to the greatest serenity. And you, O Oman, will find, in -one year’s time, that your whole attitude of mind is changed. You will -regard meditation on holy things, and the study of the Dharma, as the -highest privileges of life.” - -Hushka paused, and Oman found in his words enough food for thought to -be glad of silence. They proceeded for a long time without speech. And -gradually, as Oman came out of his revery, he found his spirits growing -lighter. A sense of freedom had taken possession of him; and now every -step that increased the distance between himself and the home of his -unnatural and unhappy youth, increased also his delight. - -When the sun hung in mid-sky, and they had reached the end of the first -pass and stood in a little valley, through which ran a stream of fresh -water, the two sat down to eat and take an hour’s rest. They seated -themselves on the thick grass, careful to disturb no insect visible to -the eye; and then, without any preliminary grace or offering to any -god, a matter as natural to Oman as eating, began their meal. They -faced each other, and Hushka kept an eye on his pupil to see that he -transgressed none of those rules of polite eating so minutely set forth -in the _Kullavagga_. But there was no fault to be found with the -student on this point. On the contrary, Oman ate as delicately as a -woman; and Hushka, after watching him for a moment or two, exclaimed -pleasantly: - -“By the word of the Samgha, Oman, thou hast the look as well as the way -of a woman about thee, sometimes.” - -Oman lifted his head, a gleam of terror in his eyes. “I am not a woman. -How, then, should I resemble one?” he demanded fiercely. - -Hushka, still contemplating him, smiled, but did not answer the -question. Then Oman, distressed and angry, sprang to his feet, and -began to pace up and down the bank of the stream; and it was five -minutes before he could return to his meal. - -At this time of his life, perhaps what Hushka said about Oman’s -appearance was more or less true. His slender figure, dreaming dark -eyes, face guiltless of any beard, and hair flowing to his shoulders, -might, indeed, have belonged to a woman of high caste. But there was -also something about him that was decisively masculine:—whether his -manner of carrying himself, the habit of looking any one piercingly in -the eye, or his taciturnity, it would be hard to say. But it is very -certain that the mingling of two elements in him had produced no weak -and vacillating creature, of meagre intellect and silly tongue. Freed -from the unhappy surroundings of his youth, Oman was likely henceforth -to command both interest and respect; and Hushka’s foregoing remark had -been nothing more than a thoughtless and haphazard jest. - -Oman recovered himself before he sat down again; and, his rice -finished, he washed both bowls, and dried them with leaves. Then he -rose, supposing that they were to proceed. It seemed, however, that -this was the hour for meditation. In imitation of the Sramana, who was -wont to sit in concentrated thought for days at a time at the foot of -some forest tree, Hushka and his pupil, obeying one of the few rules of -“hours,” seated themselves, cross-legged, under different trees, and -remained there for a long time, motionless, wrapped in contemplation -of Nirvâna—the bliss of emancipation. It was the first time that Oman -had ever performed this especial act of worship, which is common to all -the higher Indian religions. He found it more interesting than he had -imagined it could be; and was glad to think that, at Bágh, much of it -would be required in his studies. - -By two o’clock the wanderers were on their way again, and Hushka told -his pupil where they were to pass the night. Some miles farther on, in -a valley, was a large banyan grove, inhabited by hermits of various -sects, among whom were half a dozen Buddhists, who passed their lives -in rigid asceticism, but had abandoned the routine of pilgrimage and -Vassa. - -For a long time they proceeded on their way, following the track of -the sun into the southwest, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Then -Oman, as much out of desire to listen to Hushka’s melodious voice as to -learn something of the Being both were worshipping, began to question -his master concerning the holy life. And Hushka, taking up his duty, -recited to his companion the history of the life of Gautama Sramana, -from the hour of his birth in the forest of Kapila-Vastu, until that -of his death in the forest of Tirhut, where he fell back into the arms -of his disciples, murmuring: “I am exhorting you for the last time. -Transitory things are perishable. Without delay, qualify yourselves for -Nirvâna.” - -The life-story, told simply, but with an eloquence born of reverent -love, moved Oman powerfully. Here, indeed, was a man!—a man who had -lived a comprehensible life and had died naturally. To his mind, -crammed with legendary tales of Vedic demigods and monsters, with all -their meaningless miracles and overinterpreted allegorical deeds, there -was something in this remarkable, but perfectly credible history, that -brought conviction of the truth of the Buddha’s doctrines. The life he -had lived was enviable. Evidently he had seen clearly from the very -beginning; had known his course and had run it, gathering strength as -he went on. True, the Buddha had been born into honor and riches, and -had never had the terrible struggles of loneliness forced on him. But -he had chosen these for himself; and he had voluntarily made himself -outcast from men. - -These musings occupied Oman till the sun was setting on their first -day’s journey. They were now descending the slope that led into the -valley of the banyan tree. When they reached its level, and could look -down the long aisle of trunks into the green twilight of this natural -temple, Oman felt a throb of pleasure, as one at home. They entered -in silence, and had not walked far before the light of a fire became -visible among the trees in the distance. Thither they bent their -steps, and, reaching it, found that it burned before the entrance of a -small building, built around the tree trunks. Beside this shrine and -before the fire were half a dozen naked men, their black hair wild and -dishevelled, their bodies caked with dirt and disfigured with scars of -flagellation. - -“These are Agivakas. We do not stop here,” murmured Hushka, as they -approached. - -Oman looked at the repulsive creatures curiously. They were passed, -however, without any salutation, with not even a look, so far as the -ascetics were concerned; and presently the yellow-robed were out of -sight of their dancing fire. The green interior of the grove was now -nearly dark. Hushka quickened his steps; and Oman, spent though he was -with unwonted exercise, followed bravely, knowing that they must reach -protection that night, since to sleep in the open, in this mountain -region, was a danger not lightly to be undergone. However, further -firelight among the trees presently reached them, and they proceeded -with new heart, soon arriving at the Buddhist retreat. Here was no -temple. Five tonsured men, clean-shaven, clad in worn yellow robes, sat -round their fire, partaking of a supper of millet-seed and water. This -meal the Upagghaya and his pupil received a cordial invitation to join; -and it was taken for granted that they would also sleep there. To Oman, -weary as he was, the mere fact of eating, of being near a shining fire, -of seeing around him friendly faces, of listening to talk from which he -was not excluded, brought an almost overpowering sense of happiness. -Here was such companionship as he had not known since his baby days. -Here were no curious, repellent eyes upon him. And, suddenly, the -feminine in him rose, bringing to his eyes tears which it took all his -angry self-control to keep from falling. - -That night Oman slept the sweet sleep of healthy fatigue; but he -wakened early, and in a new world. The fire had died. Far overhead the -first glimmer of dawn shone down in a veil of translucent, deep green -light—like the light in the sea. The air was vibrating softly with the -twittering chorus of myriad birds that made their home in the banyan -tree. Otherwise, there was a great, morning silence. Oman, drowsy, -and unwilling to move, lay like one in a trance, looking, listening, -wondering, at the beauty around him. Presently it was transformed. -Every one was awake, and up and moving about; but the past half hour -lay deep in his heart, and the pureness of it remained with him always. - -The morning repast was hastier than had been that of the evening; and -about sunrise the pilgrims, after many good wishes and farewells from -those they were leaving, set forth again on their way. This time they -took no food with them in their bowls; for in the early afternoon they -should reach a mountain village where, after Hushka had preached in -the bazaar, they were sure to obtain at least one meal. This morning’s -walk was difficult, for it lay steadily uphill. Hushka, however, kept -the mind of his pupil too much occupied for him to feel the weariness -of the road. The master talked to him of religion, explained the canon -of Buddhist law in its simple form, and repeated long passages from -holy books. Oman listened intently to everything. His new religion -delighted him anew. The laws that he heard seemed to him divinely wise, -so well were they adapted to human weakness. And all the time, in his -subconsciousness, he had another joy: that to-day he should again hear -Hushka speak to many people. The Bhikkhu’s conversation was precious; -but Oman, thirsting for a broader triumph, was waiting to watch his -magnetism again gather up an antagonistic audience and draw them to his -feet. - -And Oman came to taste the fulness of this delight; for, wherever they -went, success followed Hushka’s preaching. What it was—the expression -of his great eyes, the low, musical, leisurely tones of his admirably -managed voice, or perhaps just the words he spoke—his pupil could not -determine: probably a measure of all three. At any rate, even in this -day of the fall of the great faith, in many towns from Bágh to Dhár and -even farther to the north, the annual coming of the Bhikkhu Hushka was -awaited as an event; and where he stopped for the first time, he was -remembered with delight, and his return hoped for. Nor, after one of -his discourses, was there to be found even a Brahman, that had heard -him, who had anything but words of praise for his eloquence. - -March passed away and April followed, and still the two fought their -way through the mighty hills, surrounded by possible dangers, but -encountering none. The days were growing hot; and, when the moon was -full they sometimes travelled by night, but this not often, because of -the wild creatures that loved to roam abroad during the quiet hours. -The time passed too quickly. Oman, now inured to constant exercise, -throve on it and grew strong. His limbs began to show muscle, and his -body renewed its vigor, till he looked a straight and handsome youth. -And as his physique developed, so also his mind. Hushka never ceased -his instructions in the Dharma, nor did Oman fail to treasure his -master’s lightest precept. He was familiar now with what lay before -him during the Vassa season. He learned the mode of daily life; the -rules of procedure in the Samgha, or community of brethren; and also -the ritual of the general confession, the Patimokkha, held fortnightly, -on new and full moon days during the Vassa. But the multitude and -minuteness of the laws, and the petty tyranny they exercised, remained -happily unguessed by him; for Hushka was too wise to burden his mind in -the beginning with what would soon become a natural part of existence. - -Oman’s present life was beautiful to him. The magnificence of the -scenery amid which they lived, the season of the year, when the earth -was at its height of joy, still more, perhaps, the beautiful influence -of Hushka’s companionship and the spirituality of what he taught, -combined to waken in Oman a buoyancy of spirit, a sense of hope and of -ideality, that furnished him strength to sustain the years of bitter -tribulation and trial that were still to be his. - -At length one day Oman and Hushka, side by side, staves in hand, -reached the treeless summit of a high hill, up the side of which they -had toiled throughout the morning, Hushka for a purpose, Oman following -unquestioningly. When they stood upon the crest, there spread before -them a mighty prospect, fair and far-reaching in the clear light of -noon. In the distance, a mere sinuous, sparkling thread, was a river, -bordered by a strip of green plain. Nearer yet, a deep-hued patch of -foliage marked a jungle, dwindled by height and distance. Then came -foothills, curving round and out, like a rough causeway, toward that -fast-flowing river; and, in the midst of rocky cliffs and sudden tufts -of foliage, were to be seen the low roofs and white walls of many -buildings. - -“Look,” said Hushka, gently: “yonder is Bágh. Our pilgrimage is over. -We have crossed the Vindhyas. June is here, and it is the Vassa season. -Art thou ready, Oman?” And he turned to examine his pupil’s face. - -Oman neither spoke nor answered the look. He was beyond himself. -Suddenly, out of the dark fastnesses of the past, shot a gleam of -light. A new vista was opening before his eyes. Memory—fleeting, -evanescent—hovered over him. His mind was struggling to penetrate the -land of forgetfulness. The gates seemed still barred; and yet—here was -a key. That river—that shining river, yonder, in the light—he knew it -well,—so well that he was shuddering at sight of it. - -“Oman,” repeated Hushka, disturbed at the look in his pupil’s eyes. - -With that one word, the dream broke. Oman turned sharply, stared for a -second into his Master’s face, and then, in a voice of the far away, -answered: “Yes, I am ready, master. Let us descend. Let us enter the -Vihara of Truth.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - THE VIHARA OF TRUTH - - -The town of Bágh, begun in a little valley, had gradually spread, up -an open hillside looking toward the southeast, and over and beyond -the jungle, to the Narmáda plain. The great Viharas were two or three -miles south of the village, built, all nine of them, in the flat of a -ravine, with wooded hillsides rising abruptly on either side. It was -not until the morning after their view from the hilltop that Hushka -and Oman made their appearance here. They had arrived in Bágh at dusk -the evening before, unusually wearied by an unusual day’s toil. Now, -after passing the night in Bágh, they had come, in the glow of a June -morning, fiercely hot, but filled with that glorifying sense of summer -that cannot be burnt away even by the deadly rays of an Indian sun, to -begin the Vassa season. - -Along the path from the town, and through the ravine itself, they -met with what seemed to Oman, brought up to regard Buddhism as a -dead faith, a surprising number of Bhikkhus, all, apparently, like -themselves, returning from the pilgrimage. And Oman further wondered -by what feat of perfect calculation they had managed to arrive from -their wanderings on this particular day. As a matter of fact, some that -they passed had been in the neighborhood for a week or more; and others -would continue to arrive through the next week. There were perhaps a -hundred and fifty men in all, including fourteen or fifteen novices; -and there were few here who could remember a time when there had been -more in the valley. Yet tradition told a great tale. For, whereas now, -all these men lived in a single Vihara, the last in the row of the -great buildings, in the days of the past every one of the nine huge -monasteries had been filled to overflowing, and twenty-five hundred men -had passed their Vassa in the ravine. - -Happily, to-day, none cared to dwell on the memory of old glories. -The Brethren were all busy greeting one another, and giving hasty -account of incidents of their various pilgrimages; for, through the -winter months, the Buddhists of Bágh were scattered over all Malwa, as -far north as Rajputana, and southward, through the plains, nearly to -the great ghats. Hushka was never alone, for he was one of the most -important and also one of the most popular monks of the Samgha. Oman, -indeed, following at his master’s heels, felt aggrieved and neglected. -He occupied himself in observation, finding high cause for wonder in -the vast, empty buildings lining the valley. They were immensely long, -narrow for their width, and built entirely of stone cut from the great -quarries near the river. Their verandas were wide, roofed and pillared -with stone; but the shade-mats of straw had long since rotted and -fallen away, and the interior of the mighty monuments stood open and -empty, deserted by their builders and their faith. - -Gradually the two approached the last of the line of monasteries, -which, as Hushka had told him, was called the Vihara of Truth, and was -the only one still inhabited. This place presented a very different -appearance from that of its silent neighbors. As they came near the -central doorway, Hushka left off his conversation with a friend, -and turned to Oman. Taking him by the hand, he led him up the step, -to the spot where stood a large man, wearing a white cloak over his -yellow robes, and further marked by an air of extreme dignity and -condescension. Oman had observed his statuesque figure some moments -previously, and saw that, though he never moved from his place, every -Bhikkhu that approached made haste to go to him, to bow and receive his -greeting. - -“That is the Sugata, the master of the Vihara, who has almost attained -to Arahatship, and remains in meditation throughout the period of -pilgrimage,” murmured Hushka in Oman’s ear, just before they reached -the great man. - -Oman felt a thrill of reverence, and looked again, hoping to perceive -new marks of holiness. All that his eyes could see, however, was -a tall, stout person, with a round, benign-looking face, plump -and smooth-shaven. The Sugata was smiling, and Oman, hungrily as -he searched, could find in that countenance no traces of divine -spirituality. However, the great One’s eight months of meditation -seemed to have agreed with him uncommonly well. - -Before this irreverent thought had taken root in Oman’s mind, he was -led up by Hushka and presented to the mighty one as a Saddhiviharika -who had received first ordination three months before. The Sugata fixed -his eyes upon the young man, who ingenuously returned the look, as the -master addressed Hushka: - -“He appears young. Is he of age?” - -“Of eighteen years, sir.” - -“Let him study well the Dharma, that, in a year, he may receive -Upasampada.” - -With this, Oman’s audience appeared to be at an end; and, a little -relieved to be out of the neighborhood of such holiness, he followed -Hushka across the veranda to a square, arcaded cloister, where, -directly in front of the entrance, stood a man with an open bag before -him, containing coins. Hushka took from his girdle the alms-purse -that he had worn for eight months, and emptied its contents into the -receptacle, at the same time exchanging greetings with the almoner. -Oman, looking on, understood that it was upon this money, received on -the pilgrimages, that the Bhikkhus lived in their monastery through the -Vassa season. - -Hushka’s exchange of courtesies ended in the question as to where he -should find one Mahapra. Informed that he was in the Uposatha hall, the -monk went back, Oman still at his side, and, passing into the veranda -again, turned down it to the right, and, some distance farther on, -entered a room so vast that Oman stopped upon its threshold, staring. -Here, near the door, was gathered quite a throng, engaged in lively -altercation with one of their number, whose lean face wore a perturbed -and strained look. At sight of him Hushka began to laugh. - -“It is, this year, Mahapra’s lot to assign the cells,” he explained to -Oman. And, leaving the young man where he was, Hushka himself plunged -into the crowd. - -So long a time elapsed before he emerged, that Oman, tired and -bewildered by so much that was new, squatted down on the floor, to -the left of the entrance, to wait. Finally Hushka returned to him, a -look of satisfaction on his face; and, signing Oman to follow, walked -rapidly across the hall, through a small door at the end into the -cloister, across this open space, and finally down a narrow passage -that ended in another open square surrounded by small doors. Here -Hushka stopped, looking round him till he found a door inscribed with a -certain letter. This he threw open. - -“Behold, Oman,” said he, “here is your home. This is the square of -novices, and I have got you a cell with an outer window. It will be -well that you should remain here for a time. The Vihara will be all -confusion to-day. But, if you come forth, do not forget the letter of -your door.” - -Then, without further ado, Hushka turned and hurried away, having -himself much to accomplish before nightfall. Oman, peremptorily left -alone, looked around him, at his new abiding-place. The room was -extremely small, considering the size of the Vihara. Opposite the door -was a small window, with a straw shade rolled up from it and bound -round with a string. From the window could be seen a strip of hillside, -where the light of noon glared over shadowless gray earth, dotted here -and there with clumps of stunted bushes. This, with a bit of deep blue -sky, was his view. The furniture of the room consisted of a straw bed -with a sleeping-mat, an earthen water-jug, another jar, and, under the -window, on a low, stone platform a foot square, a small bronze image -of the Buddha. The stone walls of the cell were nearly covered with -carvings and bright-colored frescoes, which, crude as they were, gave -the room an air of comfort and furnishing. - -Oman, accustomed to absolute simplicity, looked around him highly -satisfied with his dwelling-place. He was not, however, so well pleased -at the prospect of spending the whole afternoon without food; for his -breakfast had been scanty, and the morning long. Nevertheless, Hushka -had bidden him remain here, and Hushka’s slightest wish was law. So, -calling up some of the Vedic fortitude of his childhood’s fasts, he -remained for an hour or more gazing out of the window, considering some -of the features of the new life; and then, since there seemed nothing -better to do, let down the curtain over his window, threw himself upon -his bed, and, in a few moments, had lost himself in sleep. - - * * * * * - -The first week of the Vassa life passed without order, in a jumbling -way. Then, suddenly, as if by magic, everything changed, and existence -ran as if by clockwork. Without knowing how it had all come about, -the novices found their studies begun, and perceived that they were -living under stringent laws. Only Oman, among the twenty youths that -had received the Pabbagga ordination, found nothing to chafe him in -the rules of the day, which were enforced with a rigor that defied -disobedience. It was a long time, indeed, before the young Brahman, -occupied with the unusual joys of companionship and congenial work, -awoke to the fact of how much was being accomplished by himself and by -those around him. - -At dawn—which was early enough at this time of year—the whole Vihara -was roused by the clanging of a bell, which rang till the most -persistent sleeper could no longer retain his drowsiness. Then monks -and novices alike made the prescribed ablutions and put on the outer -robe. After this came half an hour of meditation, each one sitting -alone in his open cell, while masters of the day passed through the -corridors at irregular intervals to make sure that meditation did not -lapse into sleep. This over, the whole company repaired to the Uposatha -hall, and, seating themselves on the floor in orderly rows, repeated -in concert the creed and prayers for the day. Now came a scramble to -the refectory, where a meal was served:—a meal such as could scarcely -have been duplicated in any Rajah’s palace. For if the Bhikkhus were -accustomed to begin the Vassa with yellow robes hanging on their -emaciated frames, they were sure of setting forth on their pilgrimage -in October well fortified for the rigors of the fasting season. - -The morning meal at an end, monks and novices separated, and the -succeeding hours were occupied with varying tasks. The novices repaired -to the smaller audience hall, where they were taken in charge by -one of the four masters. Squatting in an orderly row on the floor, -they listened in decorous silence to the reading of passages of the -law, and then to a long lecture expounding all that had been read, -with paraphrases by certain of the more notable commentators. This -ordinarily occupied from two to three hours, after which followed -lessons in the Dharma, the novices themselves being called upon to -interpret chapters previously learned by rote. Then came a period of -silent contemplation of the longed-for state: the cessation of desire -and the extinction of feeling. This over, the second meal was served, -and after it came relaxation, the novices being allowed to watch the -distribution of the remains of the meal among the poor of the village -who, at this hour, came crowding to the Vihara gates. This was the one -period of unrestrained liberty in the day; and novices were permitted -to indulge themselves in games and amusements forbidden to the doubly -ordained. - -By three o’clock this was over; and the two following hours were spent -in the library, in the perusal of sacred manuscripts, of which the -Vihara of Truth owned a large number. Of all the day’s occupations this -was, to Oman, the most deeply engrossing. He had a great advantage over -most of his companions, in being able to read easily both in Sanscrit -and the older Pâli; for the scholarship of his youth had not left him. -The working day was ended by the most difficult task of all:—three -hours of silent meditation on some tenet announced at the time. At -first, to those unaccustomed to it, these three hours seemed as long as -the eight months of the Sugata’s retirement; and the novices whispered, -and yawned, and eyed each other, and let their minds wander, till the -length of their penances became startling. But gradually the time -seemed shorter, the habit of abstract thought more fixed, until it was -sometimes a surprise to hear the great bell ringing out the close of -day, when all save penitents were commended to seek a needed rest. - -This daily program was varied every two weeks, on Uposatha days, by the -ceremony of the recitation of the Patimokkha; which meant the reading -of lists of misdeeds punishable, the special penance for each offence, -and, finally, a general confession and fixing of penances. The whole -thing usually lasted from six to eight hours, and was very tiresome. -But the remainder of the day was a holiday, when rules were abandoned, -and monks and novices allowed to mix indiscriminately. - -Such was the outline of Vihara life, which, in the beginning of the -thirteenth century, differed little from that maintained in the first -Buddhist monastery eighteen hundred years before. The circumstances -of the day were unvaried; but the details, for the individuals -living the life, were never the same. The occupations held infinite -possibilities, being perfectly adaptable to moods. The meditation that -one day seemed to stretch out into infinity, passed rapidly on the -next. If the incidents of the life of Gautama set forth in one day’s -reading were dull and dreary, on the next the excerpt might sound like -a fairy story, and the reading-hour prove all too short. For those -of dull, phlegmatic temperament, perhaps there was not, after all, -much difference. But Oman Ramasarman was everything but phlegmatic. A -creature of strange moods, stirred by many feelings incomprehensible -to the multitude, devoted to the working out of a mighty expiation, -as unknown to himself as it was to his companions, his four months of -Vihara life were a momentous period with him. He very soon came to -an understanding of what this wisely regulated existence might hold -for him. He perceived that here he might build a foundation for that -resignation to the actual that he needed so terribly to attain; and -forthwith he set himself, with all the determination of which he was -capable, to attain to a full appreciation of the worth of the Buddhist -teaching. - -From the books of his religion Oman extracted much food for thought, -on which he dwelt during the hours of meditation. From the very first, -these periods of silence had been pregnant. In them, now, he found -answers to his infinite, unasked questions. They, first of all, had -awakened him to the import of the days. Perhaps, since Gautama’s first -conceptions of his great creed, there had been no proselyte so apt for -the faith as this poor, bewildered subject of a pitiless judgment. -Within Oman’s body two natures, both human, both filled with direst -cravings of humanity, had long struggled for supremacy. Now he had been -removed from the old life, where he beheld sense worshipped on every -side, and found himself in a community which taught, as an inviolable -law, the renunciation of all sense gratification as the only road to -happiness. A sudden austerity, born of the brain, began to work in -Oman’s heart. Self-denial and abnegation became a passion with him. It -was with deep delight that he graved upon his mind such verses as these: - -“That middle path of knowledge which the Tathagata has gained, which -leads to wisdom and conduces to calm, is the holy eightfold path: right -belief, right aspiration, right speech, right conduct, right means of -livelihood, right endeavor, right memory, right meditation. This is the -path that conduces to Nirvâna.” - -“And this is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, decay -is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering. Presence of -objects we hate, separation from objects we love, not to obtain what we -desire—all these are suffering. Briefly, the clinging to existence is -suffering.” - -“Now hear the truth of the cessation of suffering: it will cease with -the cessation of thirst—a cessation which consists in the abandonment -of every passion. With deliverance from this thirst comes the -destruction of desire, the cessation of suffering.” - -This was the subject on which, in his hours of contemplation, Oman -insistently dwelt. In his heart he knew that here lay his help; and -he felt it no wrong that he clung to one topic, disregarding many of -the others prescribed. The process of enforced and long-continued -meditation is a curious thing, and productive of strange results. -Thought is hardly governable, as volatile as a gas; and to keep -it fixed for any length of time upon a single point, requires a -power difficult of attainment. When it is gained, however, and then -persistently made use of, the character of the thinker is sure -to change in one of several ways; and it is axiomatic that, in a -meditative community, the individuals are never quite normal. - -In Oman’s case, the effect of the silent hours, which began to be -visible after two months of Vihara life, was one of increasing dignity -and age. He had entered the Vihara a youth, of extremely boyish -appearance, with shyest manners. He had been thoroughly crude, and -so awkward before older men that he had given an early impression -of stupidity. Now all this was altered. He was quiet, grave-eyed, -thoughtful-looking; but his manner, filled with self-control, was -almost impressive. His grasp of the teachings of the Dharma had been -quick, his questions keen and pointed. Moreover, during the periods -of relaxation, he began to keep himself apart from his fellows, but -was often to be seen talking with his master, Hushka, or some one of -the older monks of Hushka’s faction. And it was among the novices, who -began to look up to him, that the idea first originated that Oman was -to receive his Upasampada at the end of the Vassa season, instead of -waiting the full year of novitiate. - -By the first of August, with the Vassa half gone, Oman began to -perceive that he was happy:—happy as he had never believed happiness -itself could be. It seemed to him that he lacked no earthly joy. -Hushka, his Saint, the man he looked up to as the perfect model of -virtue and unselfishness, was one of his four masters; and Oman -was much with him. Apart from this companionship, he found that he -desired nothing. Solitude was not now loneliness. But though, with -the ineradicable instinct of the Brahman born, he kept himself aloof -from his fellow-novices, they seemed never to resent this, but rather -looked up to him as one of higher caste than they, and one that had, -consequently, a right to exclusiveness. Moreover, through the whole -Vihara, even by Sugata himself, Oman was spoken of as a scholar of -high promise, such a one as their decadent community now rarely saw. -Treated with respect on every hand, the memory of his old, marked days -growing dim within him, it seemed to Oman that his cup of happiness -was full. He was mastering the primal, the greatest difficulties of a -religion which, as it opened, became more and more beautiful to him. In -certain ecstatic hours he saw himself attaining to the highest state, -Arahatship, where pale Nirvana gleamed like a silver armor of repose -around the passionate soul. His nature was already under subjection; -and he no longer doubted that it was wholly conquerable. The way was -stretching out before him straight and smooth, the last boulder lifted -away, when, suddenly, out of the clear sky, came a thunder-bolt that -laid waste the fair country of his life, and left him standing alone, -terrified, a yawning chasm at his feet, the wilderness on either hand. - -It happened very simply, and without any sort of preparation. He sat -one afternoon in the library, among a throng of monks and novices, -before him one of the Vinaya texts, the Mahavagga, a manuscript of -law rigidly adhered to by Buddhist and even by Jainist communities. -There, in the list of those creatures unfit to receive ordination, and -commanded to be driven from the Samgha if, unknowing, they had been -already ordained, he came upon the sixty-eighth section, wherein all -such as he were declared unfit for holiness, ineligible for Buddhism, -and therefore outlawed, absolutely, from the blessed life.[7] - - [7] “Sacred Books of the East,” Max Müller edition, Vol. XIII, Vinaya - texts, Part I. Mahavagga, p. 222. (Trans. W. Rhys-Davids and H. - Oldenburg.) - -He read the passage once, and then again, slowly. After that he leaned -a little farther over his book, no longer seeing the writing, hoping -only that none observed him. Stupidly he sat there, for an hour or -more, neither reading nor thinking, only conning over and over again -the two simple verses that had undone him. And when he had been -quiet for a very long time, an idea came, and he whispered it over, -lingeringly, wistfully, to himself: “I shall not confess. I shall not -confess; and so—they can never know.” - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - THE WHEEL OF THE LAW - - -Four weeks passed, and Oman realized, dully, that September had come. -For him, Time had lost the power of flight. He took little note now -of the incidents in the life around him. He was in the grip of his -conscience, wholly absorbed in the pangs of a new suffering. The -consciousness that he was an outcast never left him for a single -moment. The All-knowing, the master, the Buddha, had declared him -ineligible for the serene life, had tacitly denoted him a creature -unfit to attain to any degree of peace. This, after the first shock -of discovery, was his chief thought. Instinctively, also, he clung to -another: the passionate decision that he should stand alone in his -knowledge. The broad inconsistency between these two points formed the -land of his misery. He dared not reflect on the workings of the Dharma. -He was forbidden, by every tenet of religion, to use his higher reason -in the criticism of religion. But he knew that he was, by decision of -the law, unfit for the Samgha; and that in the Samgha he intended, -bitterly, to stay. - -For long periods his brain went numb with the pressure of thought -refused. Gradually his behavior took on an aspect of guilt; and he -slunk among his fellows like one who had committed far worse than a -Dukata offence. He fell off, wofully, in his work, in his comprehension -of the Dharma. He went through his meditations dull-eyed, palpably -unthinking; and the masters of the novices began to comment on his -behavior. Finally, he got into the habit of torturing himself, daily, -after the last meditation was over, by waiting till every one had left -the hall, and then getting out the manuscript of the Mahavagga and -reading his death-sentence over again, to make sure of every keenest -pang that lay in it, every drop of poison hidden in its innocent -characters. And after he had seen it, and found that it was real, that -he had not been under the influence of some baleful misapprehension, he -would steal silently to his cell, and wear the night away in woman’s -tears or fierce rages of rebellion that left him, at dawn, a bundle of -trembling nerves. - -The load that he carried became nearly unendurable. It was lightened by -only one thing: when, occasionally dragging his mind from himself, he -looked around him at his high superiors, the doubly ordained. These, in -their dignity, their approachment to Arahatship, gave cause for highest -wonder at and admiration of their freedom from all worldly concern. He -envied, indeed, the lowest of the novices. But it seemed to him that, -if he could only receive the Upasampada ordination, he might, in some -way, cheat both himself and his god into believing in his fitness for -the honors of the holy life. - -Poor Oman! It had been infinitely easier for him had he known to -how little serenity those envied men had actually attained! In -the strangeness and isolation of his lot, it was not given him to -understand that there is never a creature that must not bear its burden -and suffer under it, believing it a little heavier, a little less -adaptable, than that of any one else. - -The poor novice thought that Upasampada opened the door upon a life in -which a tranquil and scholarly mounting to perfection, untroubled by a -single jarring incident from the outer world, was a natural sequence. -Those high beings, advancing with rapid paces toward Nirvâna—surely -their hearts and minds knew nothing of the battles, the uprisings of -self, the human desires and yearnings that he was forever struggling -against! Perhaps, indeed, the monks of the Samgha knew no such troubles -as these. Their difficulties were usually of a more ignoble kind. As -in the monasteries of another faith, in the far west, the Buddhist -Viharas, even during their pathetic decadence, were too often seething -hot-beds of rivalry and inward strife, thinly whitewashed with an outer -coat of obedience to precept and renunciation of the fivefold clinging -to the world. In the Vihara, a man desirous of attaining to Nirvâna had -not only his own weakness to conquer, his own nature to strengthen; but -he had before him the long battle of rivalry with those who, for every -step he advanced, strove to make him take two backward. The result -was, that the Samgha became a place of inner plots and counter-plots, -intrigues worthy of a royal court, stealthy meetings and conversings of -one faction or another, where obstacles innumerable were devised for -any man who desired to mount to a higher and holier estate. - -Of all the men in the Vihara of Truth, probably no one had received -more of the miserable stabs of envy and jealousy than had Hushka, -the honey-throated. Greatly beloved—by more than Oman—he was also -passionately hated. It was now twenty years since his Upasampada -ordination; and in all that time he had known scarcely an hour when he -was not enduring the malicious jealousy of a rival. For a long time -now his opposing faction had been led by Mahapra, a man who had passed -his Upasampada a year earlier than Hushka, and who had caused him more -and bitterer disappointments and humiliations than any dozen of his -other enemies. And there were those of his friends who whispered that, -had Mahapra been out of the way, it had not been Sugata who stood now -an Arahat, at the head of the Samgha. Never came there a Pavarana, -scarcely even an Uposatha day, that Hushka was not made to taste the -venom of his enemy; and there was surely no heart-sickness that he had -not endured. He had suffered as few of his companions could suffer; for -his nature was delicately organized, and he was sensible to the most -refined stings of misery. With all this, Mahapra himself rarely caught -a glimpse of the wounds he inflicted; for Hushka had the power of -concealment, and the wisdom never to burden any one with a recital of -his own unhappiness. It was thus that, to an outsider, his life could -scarcely seem other than beautiful. - -During the last weeks of the Vassa season the constant, hidden strife -that went on in the Samgha centred itself, curiously enough, around -the figure of Oman. In the early months Hushka, through Oman, had -enjoyed a triumph, for having brought from the pilgrimage a novice, -of Brahman caste, and, moreover, a pupil of such high intelligence -and one so devoted to the Dharma. The Sugata himself had complimented -Hushka on his pupil’s progress; and at this point Mahapra’s bitterest -ire and fear were roused. Too soon Oman began to give opening enough -for criticism and belittlement. His laxity in effort and the falling -off in his work and behavior became grossly apparent during the latter -half of August, while whispers and comments from the adverse faction -penetrated even to the Chaitya hall. From day to day Oman, absorbed in -his own misery, pursued his course unconscious of notice. And day by -day Hushka’s eyes followed him, in doubt and dread. - -Long Hushka forbore to speak; though through the demeanor of his -pupil he suffered as he would scarcely have believed it possible that -he still could suffer. The Bhikkhu had lately been allowing himself -to believe that the thankless labor of years was about to find its -reward. And now as, little by little, that belief was broken down, it -seemed to carry with it his very vitality, till he had lost courage -to engage with Mahapra any more in the slightest controversy over the -commentators or the higher criticism of the holy books. Indeed, the -honey-throated was aging, visibly; and this Oman woke at last to see. - -On the 3d of September the last meditation of the novices ended rather -earlier than usual, at about seven o’clock. Hushka, who was master of -the day, came in to dismiss them. He stood leaning against a pillar, -near the door, wearily watching them file by, till the last had gone. -Then Hushka turned to glance over the room, and beheld Oman still -standing at its far end, his face gleaming pale in the waning light. -Hushka gazed at him for a moment or two, and then moved slowly toward -his pupil. Oman stood perfectly still, trembling a little, till the -other halted within a foot of him. The two looked at each other till -the novice dropped his eyes. - -“Oman,” said Hushka, after a heavy pause; “Oman,” and he paused again, -while the guilt-laden one grew cold, “art thou ill?” - -For one, swift instant Oman looked at his master. “No, reverend sir, I -am not ill,” he murmured. - -“Oman! Oman! Repentest thou of thy faith?” - -Oman gave a quick cry. “No!” he answered. - -“Yet something troubles thee. Canst thou not confide in me? Shall not -I, thy master, give thee help? Tell me, Oman, tell me what it is that -lies in thy heart. Do not fear. I have suffered too long, too well, not -to know compassion.” - -Oman’s head drooped low. He clasped his two hands tightly over his -breast, and then suddenly threw them out as if in supplication. Hushka, -not understanding that Oman would have warded him off, took the hands -gently in his own. The warm, living clasp suddenly broke through -Oman’s carefully built barrier of concealment. He sank to his knees -upon the stone pavement, and his brain burned with the fire of his -knowledge. He was losing his self-control. As tears fell from his eyes, -his thoughts also flowed, till he was overwhelmed in the torrent of -his wretchedness, and crouched, rent with emotion, at the feet of the -troubled man who supported him. - -The dusk deepened. Through the long, carven hall, eerie shadows fell, -and the orange light of the west melted to purple and then to black, -till the two were alone in darkness. Hushka now knelt by Oman’s side, -and soothed the youth with fragmentary words, till he was quieter in -his grief. There followed silence, pregnant and foreboding. Hushka -would not break it. Heavy-hearted, dreading unknown things, he bowed -his head, waiting. And gradually it was borne in upon Oman that -there was no longer any way of concealment. He must give utterance -to the truth: his tragedy. How he began, how he told it, he could -not afterwards remember. At first the words choked him, then they -came faster, finally in fury, till the pent-up emotions of years were -finding expression beside that of the remorse of yesterday. Hushka -remained at his side, silent, stunned, at first, by the feeling -displayed by this youth, this child to life. It was the first thing -that impressed him:—the silent suffering that Oman must have known. -Hushka could understand him there so entirely! He knew each smallest -phase, each bitter turn of the wheel of solitary misery! In his heart, -as yet, was only pity. - -Oman came at last to the end of his strength and his confession. -Crouching there, numb, blind with tears, swollen-lipped, breathing -thickly and in gasps, he found himself, like one groping in a fog, -uttering vague questions—doubts—hopes. - -“But it is true? Those words—are they the law, then? Must Oman follow -them? Must I be thrust forth? Master!—Help me!—Master!” And Hushka felt -the wretched creature clasping his knees in the darkness. - -Then silence fell. Only Oman’s breath could be heard, rushing in -and out, like that of a dying dog. At this sound, Hushka felt a -sudden revulsion, a sudden despairing anger with him. Was Oman to be -pitied:—Oman, who had wrecked his, Hushka’s life, as well as his own? -The monk rose from his knees, walked across the hall, and stood at one -of the unscreened openings, staring out into the starlit night. Here, -silently, he struggled with himself:—struggled for justice toward Oman, -justice toward the Samgha, toward himself. Oman had not moved from the -place where he was at first. Only now he lay prone on the floor, and -his breathing was quiet. He was waiting, without any feeling, without -any emotion, for his sentence. - -The suspense continued for a long time. Hushka’s heart was full, and -his brain reeling. Now he addressed himself passionately to Gautama, -now he turned to his own judgment. Prayer and reasoning, however, led -him alike to one conclusion—a conclusion pitiless to himself, pitiless -to Oman. Nay, the cruel result was inevitable. Oman had dared formulate -nothing to himself; but Hushka was obliged to face the situation. - -After a long time, then, the monk went back to his pupil, sat down -beside him, laid a trembling hand on the prostrate shoulder, and began -to speak, softly, as a mother might: - -“Thou knowest, Oman, that the word of the Mahavagga is our law. If the -Samgha knew this thing that thou hast told me, thou wouldst suffer -public exposition and expulsion. I, knowing, dare not let thee remain -here. Thou must escape to-night, quietly; and I will be here to—to -accept the consequences of thy going. I can do no more for thee. But -the blessed Buddha, the Sakya—” - -He broke off, suddenly, for Oman, raising himself halfway from the -floor, had begun to laugh. Hushka shuddered as he listened. It was -so high, so harsh, so quavering, that it seemed as if it must go on -forever. But suddenly it broke, and melted into a long, heart-broken -wail. Oman was going to pieces; and Hushka sanely set to work to stop -it. How it was accomplished he scarcely knew. Under sharp command -and gentlest soothing Oman was presently quiet again, save for the -trembling of his body, and the little, broken moans that involuntarily -escaped him. Now that he had pulled himself together, Hushka left him -for a quarter of an hour, and then reappeared, carrying over one arm an -old and much-worn garment that was not yellow. In the other hand he had -a small millet loaf. - -Oman was dimly aware of being stripped of his robes, of having the -other garments put upon him. Then he received into his hand the food. -After that he followed his preceptor quietly out into the empty -veranda. Behind them the monastery was still. Over the great world -beyond, the golden moon was slowly rising. In its light, Oman turned -a dumb face to the man he had so worshipped. He saw that Hushka was -suffering—suffering as perhaps high Sakyamuni had not suffered. Neither -one of them, however, could speak. Hushka, with an air of benediction, -pressed his fingers, once, to the cold brow of the outcast. Then,—he -was gone. Oman was alone on the brink of the world, irrevocably and -forever shut out from the protecting walls behind him. Outcast of men, -he stood, facing life. And, since he had already drunk the dregs of -feeling, mercifully his heart was numb. After a little he moved off, -unsteadily, into the faint-starred blackness of the ravine: halted, -went on again to the edge of moonlight, and then paused once more, -struck by some new thought, expectant, his head uplifted. Out of the -night came the sound of whirring wings. He opened wide his arms, -and into them flew a small, gray bird that nestled to his breast as -if it had been at home. Holding the mysterious creature close, Oman -proceeded, staggering, through the night, down and down the ravine, -till all the Viharas were passed, and a few lights, twinkling in the -distance, showed him the town of Bágh. Then, utterly exhausted in body -and mind, he crawled, on his hands and knees, under a spreading bush, -and, with the bird still warm in his bosom, gave himself up to merciful -sleep. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - THE OUTCAST - - -Blank hours passed. The glimmer of false dawn came and went again. -At last the day, inevitable, rose, like an opal, out of the East. -The silent world was overspread with clear light; and, in its first -moments, the bird, which till now had lain motionless on Oman’s breast, -fluttered up, hovered for a second over the quiet form, and then took -flight, winging away into the invisible. Oman was still sleeping: a -heavy, transitional sleep. - -Day swept up the sky, and the blazoning sun whirled from the heart -of the hills. Now, at last, Oman opened his eyes, sat up, looked -around—stared, indeed, and all at once remembered fully. For the moment -memory unnerved him. Then the strain proved again too great; and, with -a renewed sense of dulness, he rose. The bird was gone. He seemed to -have known that before. He wished now to discover his whereabouts. In -the darkness he had reached the end of the ravine, and was at the edge -of a long, barren slope, to the west of Bágh. The houses of the town -began not far away. He could see people moving about there; and the -sight of them reminded him that he was hungry. He felt faint, a little -weak, and shaken, with the after effects of last night’s tumult. He -determined not to enter Bágh. With an undefined weight of grief and -ruin upon him, he began to toil upward along the slope, turning his -face to the north, where the high hills rose. And, as he went, he ate -the millet-loaf that Hushka had put into his hand. - -It was a fair morning, hot, cloudless, blazing. Oman wilted in the -heat, but his steps went on, mechanically. He had already determined -in his mind to reach the hills that day. As he went, he found his -thoughts groping vaguely in once-accustomed ways: loneliness—fear of -people—hatred of those that shunned him—hunger—physical discomfort—all -the old details of that solitude that he knew so well. And still his -feet did not falter. It was his masculine nature that upheld him now; -but, adding to his dread, he felt the feminine, knocking—knocking at -his heart, at his brain; and he fought desperately against admittance, -knowing that, when it came, his suffering would be trebly increased. - -His old training with Hushka stood him in good stead to-day. He made -progress. By noon, seven miles stretched between him and Bágh, and he -was now among the foothills of the great Vindhyas, which, so far as -he knew, stretched eastward before him into infinity. In this thought -there was something like comfort. Those dark-wooded wilds meant refuge -from men and the haunts of men. There should be no day in his life to -come when he would not be able to plunge into some deep ravine, or -mount some thickly jungled steep, knowing, in his heart, that whither -he went no curious, human eyes could rest on him, no living creature -follow. He felt just now that never again, while he was doomed to -remain on earth, would he suffer a glance from human eyes. - -At noon, after a few moments’ rest, Oman plunged into the woods and -began to move upward to the heights. The underbrush was not too -thick to prevent progress; and the trunks of young trees afforded -grasping-places for his hands. In this sort of country snakes were -supposed to abound; but he moved on without any fear of them. No wild -thing would molest him. Only man he feared. - -After a while he found refreshment. In the dense undergrowth were -bushes and trees bearing fruits; and many of these were at their -ripening season. Mangoes and custard apples there were in plenty, and -tamarinds and a few bananas. He was also presented with a cocoanut, -delivered by an interested monkey, who first flung it at him, and then -came hurrying to the ground to see what had happened. The incident -proved unfortunate, however. The suggestion of fellowship about the -little, bright-eyed thing, unnerved Oman for the space of a second. -In that second he was undone. The door opened to the woman. Tears -flooded his eyes, and, throwing himself upon the ground, he yielded -to an outburst of the wildest grief. The monkey, who had seated -himself near at hand, scratching his black head and chattering volubly -to the stranger, now looked on sorrowfully, and shed a few tears -himself:—wherefore, who can say? After a time, when Oman had recovered -again, the grotesque little creature broke the cocoanut against the -tree trunk, and solemnly offered half of it to his new friend. There -in the jungle they ate together; and presently, when the monkey had -run off to rejoin his tribe, Oman rose and moved on, comforted and -fortified. - -The incident had turned his thoughts away from himself; and the -afternoon passed rapidly. At nightfall he halted once more, near the -summit of a hill, ate again of the fruits of Mother Earth, and lay -down in the solemn stillness, not to sleep very readily this time. -Physically, he was very tired. Mentally, he was waking. He must -now—alas!—begin to weigh his loss, and face the future. His thoughts -travelled back through the few intervening months to the spring, when -he had wandered southward with Hushka. Then he reviewed the early part -of the Vassa, and began to see how his life had broadened before him. -There had taken place his first struggles against himself; and there -could be marked his first victories. He recalled to mind passages of -the Dharma, which he had loved to think were made for him alone. And, -with this memory, the bitterness became intolerable. He lifted his arms -toward the stars and wailed his woe. And passively the stars shone on, -nor heeded him. The parts of nature, so imperturbable, so enduring, so -changeless,—were they satisfied? Had they received enough of God? Oh, -surely, yes! On all save him had the Creator showered blessings, to all -given gifts and mercies. He, only, was marked out for constant woe, -constant disappointment, constant misery. Having thus grieved through -long hours, the outcast finally closed his eyes upon his first day of -probation, and once more slept. - -On the morrow he found himself able to make less progress. His -nature, lately accustomed to over-nourishment, demanded something -more substantial than fruit and nuts. He began to realize that, until -he became inured to this life, he must occasionally have a little -grain, or meat. Also, the utter loneliness of the vast jungle through -which he travelled, began to appall him. He had so lately known the -constant companionship of many men, that there hung over him a sense -of direst oppression, in this uninhabited wilderness. His recently -engendered dread and hatred of humankind was already giving way to an -unconquerable longing for the sight of a human face. - -On the third morning he woke almost to desperation. Should nothing -happen to him to-day, he felt that he must break under the strain of -thought:—that empty, beating thought—of nothing. Meantime, there crept -upon him the insidious desire to try again, only once again, if men -would not accept him; if, knowing nothing of him, his mark must be -apparent to a point of instinctive aversion. And, at the same time with -this, he was coming to something that he had not had to endure before. -He was beginning to hate himself for what he was. His restless longing -to be respected among men turned him away from that rebellion against -them which had long possessed him; and, in the revulsion, he went to -the other extreme: hating himself because he could not be as others. - -The whole afternoon of the third day he spent in toiling up a great -hill, the summit of which was reached at sunset; and from this -height he gained recompense for the long travail. Around him—to the -south—to the east—to the west, rolled great hills, verdure-clad. No -sign of plain or level land was visible. On three sides of him the -hills stretched away, a little lower than that on which he stood. But -in front, to the north, rose a series of gigantic, rocky heights, -which towered infinitely upward, bringing him a realizing sense of -his own pygmy unimportance. And now his eyes, travelling downward, -perceived the deep ravine that separated him from the first of the high -mountains; and, looking, his heart leaped within his breast. For there, -in that gulf, were houses:—mud huts, wooden ones—two, three, a score; -and beside them ran a swift mountain stream, the murmur of which rose -up to him through the stillness. - -“I will go down! I will go down to them, for they are built of men!” -he said to himself, eagerly, like a child. And forthwith he began his -descent, walking with a new buoyance. As he proceeded, his way grew -difficult. The houses, far below, were hidden from his view in the -thickness of the undergrowth. The light was melting away; for the sun -lay on the edge of the horizon, behind the hills. Still he pressed on, -a tempered joy in his heart that was not to be stilled by reason. - -Though he hurried, darkness was on him before he reached the level; and -then, indeed, it seemed as if he must resign himself to another night -of solitude. Nevertheless he fought, still refusing to abandon his -hope. And suddenly, from a more open space on the slope, he looked down -and saw, but a little way below, half a dozen shining lights—flames of -sacrificial fires. And after that no falls, no bruises, no difficulties -of the precipitous way, could keep him back. An hour after sunset he -stood at the edge of the clearing where the village was. - -The first hut was near at hand: a square one, tiny, tumble-down, -even squalid. Yet it was roofed over with wood, and within the open -doorway firelight shone. There must be human creatures there; and -there Oman was determined to enter. He approached, almost reverently, -and halted before the door. Within, was only one person—a woman, or -girl, of perhaps sixteen. Her dress proclaimed her widowhood, and -her caste was too easily recognizable. Oman, however, accustomed to -such matters, thought of nothing but that she was a woman—kneading -barley-cakes before her fire; and, as he watched her, his heart warmed -with humanness, and he smiled. After a moment she, lifting her head, -perceived him, dimly outlined near the doorway. At once she rose, -though without any welcome in her eyes, and advanced, with respectful -salute, saying, in a voice that was pleasantly modulated: - -“Enter, sir, enter. I have entertainment for him that desires it.” - -Oman shook his head. “I come from out of the hills. Nor have I any -money,” he added, suddenly aware of his destitution. - -But the girl only saluted him again: “The reverend One is a -Brahmana.[8] Enter, then, in the name of the gods.” - - [8] Wandering fakirs of any religion were called “Brahmanas,” a word - to be distinguished from “Brahmans.” - -Once more, though slowly and with deep reluctance, Oman shook his head. -“I am neither Bhikkhu nor Brahmana,” he answered. “I am—an outcast.” - -For a moment the woman turned away her head, and Oman’s heart sank. -But, all of a sudden, she ran to him, taking him by the hand, and -looking at him so that he perceived the gentleness of her face and -eyes. “Enter,” she whispered. “I am lonely. I will share my cakes with -you. And there is milk.—But my husband’s brother must not know this -thing. He is of the weaver caste; and he is very proud.” - -Chattering in a subdued voice, she led him in, and placed him before -the crackling fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the -roof. The cakes which she had just kneaded and shaped lay on a board -before the fire, baking questionably. Now she ran to a cupboard in the -corner and took therefrom a large jar of meal, a little of which she -put into an earthen pot, near at hand. Water, from another jar, was -poured over the grain; and then she set the dish in the fire, where the -simple porridge was soon steaming pleasantly. - -Oman sat silent on the floor, looking on with rising emotions. It was -such an unspeakable luxury to watch her, low-caste and poverty-stricken -as she was, moving about in the one-roomed hut which was none too -tidy in its simple arrangements, that he could not be ashamed of his -beggary. The meal was soon ready; but, before he ate, the wanderer, -suddenly realizing what his appearance must be, took occasion to make -use of some of the contents of the water-jar for his face and hands. -The girl brought him a piece of cloth on which he dried himself; and, -when he turned to the fire again, she cried out: - -“Why! Thou art beautiful! And—ah! You are not an outcast!” And, leaning -over, she laid her hand on the Brahman cord still fastened over his -left shoulder. - -Oman looked at it—and flushed. He had a momentary impulse to tear the -thong away. But the impulse passed, and it was not done. His father -had not removed it. Why should he? So, without answering the girl’s -exclamatory question, he turned again to the fire, and she, with great -forbearance, refrained from pursuing the subject. - -It was a pleasant meal,—the pleasantest, perhaps, that Oman had -ever known. The girl, who gave her name as Poussa, chattered to him -unrestrainedly:—of her life; of her brother-in-law, who took most of -her wages, and beat her when these were too little; of the doings of -the little village; and a thousand details of the people therein, that -brought new warmth to Oman’s heart. In return he told her something of -himself:—that he had been a weaver, but had gone to join the Bhikkhus, -with whom he had now tired of living. She seemed satisfied with what he -said, and they talked, comfortably, while she cleared away the remains -of their meal, and then, returning, seated herself in front of him, and -took his two hands and kissed them. - -“See how my heart inclines to my lord. I love him,” she said, simply. - -Oman started to his feet, shaking her from him violently. Then he -strode to the doorway, and stood there, staring into the night, till -Poussa, frightened, crept to him again, and, kneeling at his feet, -timidly sought his pardon. - -“Nay, Poussa, nay, there is no fault. But I must not remain with thee, -for I am not of thy kind—not like other men.” - -“Lord, I know it well. Thou art far above me; yet I beseech thee to -remain, and I will trouble thee no more. Ah, let my lord incline -himself to my forgiveness!” And so prettily did she entreat, and so -weak was he with the yearning for sympathy, that, in the end, he did as -she asked, and returned into the hut, where they fell to talking again. - -Before he slept that night, however, Oman learned something of the -personal life of his pathetic little hostess. They were still before -the fire, but their talk had grown fitful and full of pauses, when, -out of the blackness beyond the open door appeared a man, lean, ill -shapen, but well clothed. His face was not good to look upon, and his -expression made it worse. In the doorway he halted, apparently not -intending to come in, after he had seen Oman. Nor did he speak; but -stood still for a moment, looking hard at Poussa. Words from him were -unnecessary. Oman and the girl saw him at the same moment, and she, -her face instantly losing its tranquil look, sprang to her feet, and, -running to the door, saluted the newcomer with profoundest respect. The -man snarled some words at her, the purport of which Oman caught. They -related to money—apparently a demand to see what she had earned during -the day. Poussa fell upon her knees, pleading, in a low tone, that -her guardian would refrain from altercation in Oman’s presence. The -man seemed to accede to her request, and, after a few words more, the -lowered tone of which did not lessen their ugliness, strode off again -into the darkness. - -Oman, relieved at the departure, looked up, prepared to find Poussa -smiling again. He was disappointed. The girl finally rose from her -knees and came back again. But her head was bent, and her whole -attitude one of deep dejection. Indeed, by the glow of the low fire, -Oman perceived that slow tears were rolling from her eyes, and that her -hands were clasped as if in pain. - -“Why do you weep? He is gone. You are safe,” he began, half timidly. - -Poussa looked up at him with eyes full of misery. “Early to-morrow he -will come again. And then—I shall be beaten. Oh, I shall be beaten!” - -“But why—why will he beat you?” he demanded, in astonishment. - -“Because—no, it is nothing.” She would not speak. - -Oman took her by the shoulders. “Why will he beat you?” he asked, -stupidly. - -“He is my brother-in-law,” she responded, as if that were quite -sufficient to explain any cruelty. - -“He desired money,” muttered Oman to himself. “Ah—ah—I see! _I_ -have no money for you! _I!_” - -Poussa quivered under his touch, and her answer was only a faint moan. - -“Oh! Oh! It is unendurable! Do you hear? It is unendurable! Let me go -after him! I will tell him.” - -“No.” The word was firm. “No. He would only beat you. He is master in -this village. I am used to it. See, I will not weep—I weep no more. -Come, we will sleep now. Let us sleep.” - -But Oman was not satisfied. He had too much of the woman in him to -be indifferent to the prospect of a woman’s suffering. Because of -charity to him, a woman was to be beaten! The thought was too much. -In his agitation, he began to pace up and down the little room, -thinking—suffering—once again cursing his fate. Suddenly something -caught his attention. In the dark corner of the room, beside the -unshuttered window, was a rough hand-loom, half filled with a piece of -badly woven cloth. Before this Oman paused, considering. - -“Thou sayest thy husband’s brother is a weaver?” he asked. - -“Yes. He is a weaver. He caused this loom to be built in my house, -that I might occupy my idle hours in working at it. But I cannot weave -evenly enough for him to sell the cloth I make. Therefore only my own -garments can be fashioned from what I do,” she explained, in a dreary -tone. - -Oman, however, had suddenly recovered himself. “It is well, Poussa. I -shall repay thy brother for thy charity. Come, I beseech thee, do not -weep.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder, smiled into her eyes, and -presently, in spite of herself, she was comforted; and, through Oman’s -gentle words, forgot her trouble. In a little time they went to rest, -Poussa lying upon her accustomed bed, Oman on the floor near the door. -And both of them being weary with the day, they shortly slept. - -In the first gray of morning, however, Oman was astir. While the light -in the hut was still too faint for him to see clearly, he took the -empty water-jar from its place, ran down through the still, shadowy -hamlet to the edge of the mountain stream, into which he first plunged -himself, coming out shivering and gasping, but refreshed; and then, -after drying himself in the air, he replaced his tattered garments, -filled his jar with water, and returned to Poussa’s hut, where a bright -daylight now threw the meagre furniture into bold relief. Poussa -herself still lay upon the pallet, sleeping like a child. And Oman, -after looking at her for a moment with a sudden tenderness in his -heart, sat himself down at the loom, and, with a thrill of independence -and pleasure, set to work, first remedying and straightening the -knotted and uneven warp already stretched; and then, seeing that there -was plenty of yarn left for the weft, began to throw it on. - -A full hour later Poussa woke to the “hock-hock-hock” of the loom, -before which sat her guest of the previous evening. The shuttle was -flying fast over the straight and even threads, and, under Oman’s -fingers, which had lost none of their skill of five months before, the -finished cloth was slowly gathering in the frame: as fine a bit of work -as her brother himself could have put forth. After a moment’s staring, -to wake herself from a supposed dream, Poussa, with a little cry, ran -to the loom and gazed into Oman’s face. - -“Thou! Thou an outcast! Thou’rt even Krishna himself!” she cried, -throwing herself on her knees before him, while he ceased his work and -bent over her, smiling and protesting. - -“In this way I pay my debt to thee. Tell me! When I have worked all -day, and have produced a piece of cloth that will bring twenty copper -pieces, will he then forbear to beat thee?” he asked. - -Poussa stooped over the loom, examining the work at first anxiously, -then with delight. “Yes—ah yes! It is more than enough. Thou hast saved -me!” and, throwing herself on the floor, she touched Oman’s feet with -her brow. Then, when he had raised her up, she began, joyously, the -more useful task of preparing breakfast. - -Oman was true to his word. All the morning, barring the half hour in -which he and Poussa broke their fast, he toiled at the loom, till -Poussa’s guardian came for the expected money. The interview with him -Oman undertook, making as much explanation as he saw fit, and allowing -Salivan to examine his handiwork critically. Salivan was satisfied. -His own vanity could not deny that the work was good. Though the -man’s words were few and not overgracious, Poussa’s face, after his -departure, all radiant as it was with relief and pride, doubled Oman’s -reward, and he toiled from pure pleasure to the last moment of the -light. - -In the early afternoon Poussa, whose work began late in the day, -went to the forest to gather firewood; and Oman, left alone at the -loom, began to meditate. His first musings were vague: instinctive -impressions rather than definite ideas; but he was too much master of -this art of thought to leave them, as most Hindoos would, in embryo. -As his shuttle flew in and out of the warp on the loom, so were his -thoughts busy weaving a new pattern on his fabric of life. But, in -his imagination, there grew two distinct possibilities, one of which -must soon be made a fact, the other discarded. One was the natural -existence of a man among his fellows—himself, settling quietly down in -this world-sheltered spot, to weave away his life in tranquil monotony. -The other presented to him a strange aspect, beginning in hardship, in -loneliness, in unceasing trial and probation, and ending in—he knew not -what. And perhaps just in this uncertainty lay the fascination that, -from the beginning, made the harder course seem so much more attractive -than the other. After all, he was not as other men; and, by the -arrangement of inscrutable providence, life could never look to him as -it looked to those who had been given individual lives and individual -chances. - -For many hours Oman’s fancy played thus with destiny; and all the -while, in his inmost heart, he knew that, when the choice came, -he should not hesitate. He knew that Fate enwrapped him, grim, -unconquerable. And he knew that he should run the course prescribed by -her, though all the temptations of humankind were placed in his way. -For so much of the scheme of his life disclosed itself to him. - -At dusk, Poussa returned, staggering under a weight of boughs. Oman -met her at the door, and took half of her load from her, as a woman -might, she standing by the while, wondering what manner of man it was -that would help her at such a task. When the Agnihotra was burning the -two sat down, cross-legged, beside the fire; and she, assuming for a -moment, unconsciously, a rôle of Fate, began to try him, tempting: - -“O High-born, listen! It has been spread about through the village -that thou, a master weaver, art come among us. Soon my brother-in-law -will ask you to take up your abode with him, that you may jointly ply -the trade. My master, say not again that thou art outcast of men. Come -thou and dwell near me, and let me serve thee, who will then have the -happiness of thy nearness. As Krishna pities women and protects them, -so do thou!” - -It was thus that she brought up a new battle in Oman’s soul. Two forces -struggled again within him: one, man’s natural need; the other—what? -The summoning of the higher law? The half-conscious necessity for the -fulfilment of his mission? Something of these. Something that would -not yield the battle. Something that had taken possession of Oman’s -mind, and would not lessen its hold, but forced from him words that -were scarcely his own. Yet even secretly rebelling, he recognized the -power that had hitherto held him. He perceived that it was the first -choice that had been given him:—his first glimpse of the two roads -that stretch before every living thing. And, in gratitude for this new -trust, he yielded to the power, and spoke as Prophets speak: - -“Nay, Poussa. I may not dwell among you. My way lies upward and on. My -destiny cannot be the destiny of men; for I travel the road of those -that have sinned. ‘A burning forest shuts my roadside in.’ One more -night I shall remain with you, and then I set out again—up—to the -heights above, there to finish my soul’s travail. Yet I shall see thee -again; for, in my weakness, I must return to thee for help. Do not -grieve. For what I do has been already decreed, and is now turning from -the wheel of present time. Let us speak of it no more.” - -Poussa obeyed him. Nor was he to be moved by the suave arguments of -Salivan, who returned, that evening, to examine his work, and to lay -the proposition of partnership before him. Yet, in the silent watches -of the night, doubts came, and he wondered at himself for his choice. -The morning scarcely brought comfort; and how it was that he fulfilled -his word, it would be hard to say. But it is true that, while the day -was young, he withdrew himself from Poussa’s clasp and set out, alone -once more, into the world, up, toward the great mountain that overhung -the village to the north, and was called of men the “Silver Peak”. -Thither went Oman, driven by destiny, to attain to the heights that -held for him, though he knew it not, on the one hand the scourge of -suffering and blind wandering for the soul; on the other the crown of -victory and life. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - THE STRUGGLE ON THE HEIGHT - - -In all great mountain ranges there are what might be called heights of -man and heights of nature. There are always hills that seem to invite -the puny human agility: that hold at their summits resting-places -whence men may obtain their “view” and begin their descent again, -filled with pride at the conquest of inconsequent difficulties. But -there are other heights that were not made for such: places which, -even should man attain to them, refuse him his vain reward, bind him -about with a spell of bewildered awe, and, if he safely reach his -earth-kennel once more, leave him with the sense that he has been -refused his due. - -Heights such as these owe nothing to humanity. They are the -retreating-places of defeated nature. To man they are not natural. -Their high glory is not for him. Towering into regions above -slow-drifting clouds, where sun and stars and moon lean close on high, -they are in communion with eternity. Nor is their secret of the ages to -be borne away and exploited in the depths below. - -Such a height as this rose up beyond the little hamlet of the mountain -stream. Its peak, a spirelike pinnacle, not so lofty when compared -with Himalayan or even Alpine heights, rose up from a high, rounded -plateau which itself lay above the tops of the surrounding hills. -On the far side of the mountain the slope ran gradually down to the -basin of a tiny mountain lake, that lay five hundred feet above the -valley level. But on the south end of this heavenly plateau, rocks -jutted down in a vast, tumbling mass, to a depth of three thousand -feet. Alone in its far summit, sunlit, glorious, the strange mountain -top might have been hailed king of the whole range. And, indeed, it -was one of the few mountains of the Vindhyas distinctive enough to -possess a name. The valley dwellers called it the “Silver Peak”; and -its name fitted it well. The eastern slope was densely wooded. The -rocks at the base of the peak on the plateau were filled with caves; -yet animals and reptiles shunned these easy abodes. Only sure-flying -birds, eagles and falcons and kingfishers and floriken, swept through -its forests and over its height, unawed by the inviolable stillness. -But this stillness, unbroken since the day the mountain rose from the -earth’s seething surface, was something to be feared. Here man had been -defeated in the moment of his triumph. His blatant voice, lifted upon -this royal height, had shrunk to a faint whisper; and he had fled his -sacrilege in shame. - -It was midday on the height. Overhead blazed a September sun, -infinitely brilliant. The plateau, bathed in gold, lay drowsy in the -noontide. Below, a few shreds of silvery cloud clung about the rocks, -veiling higher mysteries from the lower world. The loneliness was -absolute. Neither eagle nor cormorant dared the sun at this hour; -and it seemed as if living things had never existed here. Not one -world-murmur sent its vibration through the tranquil atmosphere. -Man and the works of man were forgotten or undreamed-of. Here was -such peace as the flesh-clothed spirit cannot know: the peace that -terrifies, because it was declared primevally of God. - -Up to this height from the depths below came Oman, mounting slowly, -all but overcome with the long toil of nearly twenty hours. From the -torrent, through cloud fringes, out of forest darkness came he, upborne -by his strange will. Reaching at last the level, he walked on it till -he emerged from the trees into an open space, on one side of which rose -the rocky wall of the peak, pierced with its little caves. Far to the -east, down the long, slow slope, twenty-five hundred feet below, the -lake lay glittering with golden ripples. Beyond it hills rolled, on and -on, till, in the far morning-land, they ended in a deep, violet mist. - -Here, in the open, Oman paused and looked. As he stood, gaunt and -tall, clad in the floating, tattered raiment of some long-dead -Bhikkhu, in his right hand a stout staff, in his left a small bag -of millet—Poussa’s gift, the two spirits in him looking out through -his great eyes, there was no suggestion of triumph about him. He was -overcome by the wonderful beauty of the surrounding scene; but he -also betrayed a terrible fatigue, the fatigue of mind, as well as of -body. The mountain lazily surveyed him as he stood, and perceived that -he carried the key to the gate of solitude. He was not to be denied -admittance. Deserted of mankind he had come unto Nature, asking shelter -from the world; and Nature, pitying, could not refuse. - -Still actuated by the spirit that seemed distinct from himself, Oman -moved slowly toward the rocky ridge, and entered one of the caves -that pierced it. Here was a place that would shelter him from storms; -and here, should nights prove cold, a fire would always live. In the -cave’s mouth he sat, for a long time, musing on the possibilities of -making an abode in this strange place. There seemed to be only one -vital lack. There was no sign of water anywhere about. Should that not -exist, he must descend again. This thought caused his heart fairly to -sink. Obeying a quick impulse, he set out in search of water; and it -was nearly an hour before, fifty feet down the eastern slope, he found -a spring that sent a tiny, falling thread down in the direction of the -lake, till it was lost under the earth, a long way below. - -The last obstacle was gone now. This place was fitted to be his abode. -Here, far from the reach of his kind, he would dwell, till he had -fashioned for himself a life that should be impervious to the shafts of -wanton injustice and cruelty. Here he must fight the great battle of -his dual nature, the outcome of which he himself could not foresee. - -This much settled, he turned to practical needs. After a long draught -of water, he went back to his cave, and began the tedious process of -building a fire after the fashion of the woodsman:—twirling a small, -pointed stick, like a drill, into a close-fitting hole made in a piece -of harder wood; feeding the heat with fine dust particles and crumbled -dead leaves, till at last a flame appeared. It was a matter of an hour -or more before his fire was ready; and by this time Oman was famished -with hunger. He parched some of his millet on a flat stone, ate it with -eagerness, and finished the meal with some mangoes gathered on the -mountain side. Then, his faintness relieved, though his hunger was not -wholly satisfied, he lay down and slept, waking again just as the sun -was setting. - -The wonder of the following hour made an impression on him that was -indelible: that bound him about with a spell which lasted as long -as he dwelt upon the mountain top. Far away in the great west, from -the palpitating flame in which the sun had set, spread a vast cloud -of deepening crimson that slowly broadened, through the air and over -the hills, clothing peak after peak with rose-gold, its misty glow -shimmering over the whole earth, till every crag, every tree-top, every -eagle’s wing, was transcended with the light. Gradually the color -shifted, changed, sunk to a paler pink, encompassed with gray and -violet shadows that shrouded the form of Night, who presently set on -high her beacon: the diamond-pointed evening star, hanging, tremulous, -in the deep-tinted west. And lo! as the swift Indian twilight died, the -sister stars one by one flashed into view, till the sky was crowned -with them, and the day lay dead under a velvet pall. - -Slowly Oman turned and walked back into his cave, his sense of -exaltation changing into oppression: a realization of his infinite -littleness before the immensity of the changeless world. Night after -night such a scene as he had just witnessed was unfolded here, where -no mortal eye was supposed to look on it. He felt himself an intruder -in a holy shrine. His presence was the sacrilege of an inviolate fane, -the retreating-place of God. And the loneliness, the oppression of his -senses, was like the weight of the whole mountain on his soul. Still, -through it all, was a joy: the joy of the knowledge of those things -that no man knoweth, the splendor that man cannot parallel. - -All that night Oman scarcely slept; and yet the hours were not long. -His mind wandered unrestrained through space. His thoughts were of a -great and solemn beauty, of which he was scarcely conscious. In the -first glimmer of dawn he left his rocky bed, and went out again into -the open, this time turning his face to the east. And there was enacted -before him another indescribable drama, which lasted till the sun was -high in the heavens. Then he returned to eat another meagre meal of -parched grain, supplemented with water. That bare sustenance seemed the -only permissible food in the face of the ascetic splendors of sky and -mountain-top. All through the day he moved quietly about the plateau, -feeling more and more that it would be impossible now for him to leave -the enchanted place. And the mountain, still watching how he moved and -communed, humbly, within himself, sanctioned his presence, and bade him -welcome to her undisciplined heights. - -Such was the beginning of his sojourn on the Silver Peak, which lasted -not weeks nor months, but years—how many years, Oman never knew. The -tale of this life might be compassed in a line, if one dealt only with -events; but the mental phases through which he passed are scarcely to -be transcribed. Life was sustained in him by the meagrest food. He -lived as the Chelahs live: upon his soul; and was satisfied therewith. -In the beginning, he was forced to return some dozen times to the -hamlet in the valley, where he wove on Poussa’s loom, to earn grain -enough to live on. But, early in his hermit’s life, he ploughed himself -a field on the plateau, planted millet-seed therein, and, after that, -reaped two scanty crops a year:—enough to live on. And from the period -of his first harvest, he descended no more into the valley, where -Poussa mourned for him as dead. - -To one choosing, or chosen for, the life Oman had elected, dwelling -in utter solitude from year to year, two courses are open. If the -physical in him predominates, he draws out of the nature around him -all that is animal, savage, or untamed, gradually loses his powers of -thought and articulation, finally, the very habits of man, becoming -a creature wilder than the wild things themselves. But, if he be of -the spiritual type, a dreamer or religious fanatic, he draws toward -him the soul of Nature; his mind expands as his body dwindles; and it -is said that strange psychical powers come to him. With Oman, in the -beginning, it seemed doubtful which he was to become: beast or angel. -Buddhism had not uprooted the passion and the animal instincts of his -dual spirit; but it had at least opened his eyes to the spiritual life. -For many months—two, or perhaps three years, even—the battle of the -two forces raged within him. And probably it was the mere fact that he -was able for so long a time to retain spiritual remembrance, that gave -him victory in the end. At first his moods alternated. For days at a -time he would sit wrapped in a state of impenetrable calm, meditating -as Gautama had meditated. Then, without any warning, the brute in him -would rise, and, driven by it, he would range through the mountain -woods like a demon, climbing, goat-like, over crags and precipices, -and performing feats of physical strength that were almost superhuman. -Again, suddenly, in one breath, he would break into a tempest of tears -and cries, and, flinging himself on the ground, wherever he happened to -be, would lie there, shaken with sobs, till sheer exhaustion brought -quiet. Reaction never failed him, however; and it was always the same. -Quietly, like a numb, dazed creature, he would rise and drag himself -back to the open summit and his cave, and there would sleep, for an -uncalculated period. When he woke he ate; and, in the torpor that -followed, the great calm would descend on him again. - -His tempests were always a source of deep trouble and dejection to -him. That incomprehensible womanishness that lived within him he half -despised and half deplored. When she was uppermost, she was pitiable -enough. Her high, wailing voice roused the dreariest echoes among the -surrounding rocks; and one hearing them might have fancied himself -listening to a chorus of damned souls wandering along the road to -Kutashala Mali. This weaker spirit used, in the beginning, to be -roused by the thunderstorms which, from time to time, raged across -the heights. With the first hissing fire-streak that crossed the sky, -Oman’s frame would be shaken by a quiver of terror, and he would cower -away into his rude habitation, and, covering his face, remain moaning -and trembling with every crash, every blaze of lightning, every fresh -onslaught of cold rain. To him it was as if these phenomena brought -back some experience of the dimly veiled past, when, in words that -smote his ears like the near thunder itself, he had heard pronounced on -him a doom, and had thenceforth been plunged into deepest night. - -After the passing of the storm, when the stars came radiantly forth -upon the newly refreshed sky, or the sun shone through an upstretched, -radiant bow, there would steal upon the stricken creature of the cave a -sense of comfort and consolation almost repaying the evil hour of fear. -At such times, Oman would put away his sense of wretchedness and shame; -and his heart would open out in praise. What he should praise, whom, -which of the gods his life had known, he could not tell. None of them -all—Siva, Vishnu, Indra, not the Buddha himself—could satisfy his new, -groping sense. But the searching, seeking, wondering after the unknown, -the greatly desired, usually led him back into his state of meditation, -where he could claim himself again a man. - -In the end, it was this search that brought him into the kingdom. -Brahman born, a Vedic student, instructed also in the three great -philosophic systems, and, later, introduced to Buddhism, he had at -hand a great fund of religion, and a variety of hypotheses on which to -meditate. As soon as he began to perceive that he must find some creed -to lean upon, he set to work consistently to analyze and compare these -different systems. And from that time, when he felt himself occupied -with a real work, the tempests of his unconquered self came less often, -and were far less fierce, till, by degrees, they ceased entirely, and -he found himself master of his solitude. Now, truth began to disclose -herself to him. Gradually he discovered that he understood a few -things. He perceived life to be a period of trial and probation. The -beginning and the end are good. One comes into the world innocent, pure -at heart, untroubled by sordid doubts and fears. One leaves it calmly, -having ceased to desire the things of life. In the interval many phases -hold possession of the soul: ambitions of various kinds (lusts and -loves, for which one pays with blood and tears), and the worshipping of -many idols. But one by one these break and crumble away. Men perceive -that they are false, and cease to search for them; and their lack—the -loss of riches, power, even love,—are not to be felt as evils. The soul -is self-sufficient if it know its god. This is the story of life. - -Afterwards came higher considerations:—cause, purpose, natural law, -finality. Deep were Oman’s meditations on these matters, and strange -the answers that he found. The twenty-five principles of the philosophy -of Kapila he reduced to two—matter and essence. From the combination -of these the universe has risen. The great fountain of Spirit, -situate in the heart of the rolling worlds, sends forth a constant -spray, each drop of which is a soul, which, entering a material form, -begins its long pilgrimage back, through imprisoning matter, into -the fountain-head again. Into such form, after long and troubled -study, did Oman work his truths; and then, still unsatisfied with the -infinitude of existence involved in the idea, sought further solution -to unsolvable things. - -Six, seven, eight years went by; and Oman was no longer young. Yet his -appearance was still not that of a man. His face was without any trace -of beard; nor was his expression one borne by world-dwellers. His eyes -glowed with an inward fire. There were certain lines about his mouth -and eyes that gave his features the droop of constant melancholy. His -form was tall and gaunt; but his fine skin was still untoughened by -exposure to sun and wind. Save for a cloth about the loins, he now went -unclothed, unconscious of nakedness, exposed to no observing eyes. His -muscles stood well up on his lean body, for he was a tiller of the -soil. In his whole life there on the mountain he had never known one -day’s sickness; nor did it occur to him to consider health in the light -of good or evil. His solitude had effect on him in infinite ways; but -he kept himself from forgetting speech by frequently talking aloud. His -thoughts, however, were not at all those of men. He made companions out -of the natural objects round him, and regarded the phenomena of nature -as beautiful scenes in which he himself had a part. He called greetings -to the rising sun and to the moon, which looked on him with jovial, -distorted face. Wild creatures that lived in the lower woods—bears, -small, burrowing animals, even snakes, moved near him without fear and -without any threat of battle. During his long residence in the open, he -had never knowingly injured a single sentient thing; and for this his -reward came in the shape of companionship with the wild. The tenth year -of his mountain solitude had passed, when, suddenly, all things were -changed for him. - -In some mysterious way, how, cannot be explained, for the rumor could -have had no other origin than the wind, it was spread among the -scattering mountain villages that, on the summit of the Silver Peak, -there dwelt a Chelah, or hermit, of great holiness and wonderful -powers. And thereupon pilgrimages thither began. - -The meeting of Oman and the first stranger that penetrated his solitude -was unique. It was more than ten years since Oman had looked upon -the face of one of his kind or heard the sound of any voice other -than his own. He had for a long time felt neither need nor desire for -companionship; and his mind had become quite deadened to the necessity -of reëntering the world. One afternoon, returning from a short walk -down the eastern slope after fruit, he found himself face to face with -a man, standing near the entrance of his cave, who, seeing him, began -to prostrate himself rapidly. Oman stopped perfectly still, looking at -him with wonderment in his face. After a while, seeing that the holy -one did not speak, the man began: - -“O most excellent, reverend sir, accept my worshipful homage of your -learning and holiness. I am come to ask of you the fate of my wife, who -is sick of the white plague. All doctors I have rejected, and come to -you, on the top of this amazingly high mountain, to ask your aid. And, -that I may not seem to be wanting in reverence, I bring with me a jade -anklet,—which may the reverend One accept!” and forthwith he proffered -his gift. - -Oman looked at him long and steadfastly, striving to master the -emotions that were welling up within him, the foremost of which seemed -to be acute displeasure. He hesitated also to speak; for he realized, -on listening to the speech of the man, that his own articulation had -become almost unrecognizably altered. An answer seemed, however, to be -a necessity; so, presently, he nerved himself to the effort, and said, -slowly, with great difficulty: - -“Do not bow down before me, O man, nor before any being like yourself. -Return to your wife and keep your place beside her bed; nor neglect to -obtain doctors for her in her sickness. I will not take your gift, for -what need have I of jade? Return to your dwelling and trouble me no -more.” - -Vainly the man protested, tried propitiation, prayer, demand. Oman -would pretend to no knowledge concerning the sickness of his wife. But -when the stranger asked for food before beginning his arduous homeward -journey, Oman could not refuse him, but offered what he had; and, when -they had eaten together, the man continually exclaiming that he was not -worthy of the honor, he departed, unsatisfied, carrying with him his -jade anklet. - -Oman was left in a state of great agitation. The single hour of human -companionship had brought down on him, in a torrent, all the old -desires, fears, worries, hopes, in fine the inevitable emotions of -human life; and he was whirled into the stream of the old problem. -That day, and the next, and three or four nights, were filled with -restlessness. Then, as time passed, and he found himself unmolested, -calm returned, and the thoughts of the other life faded again. - -Nevertheless, the spell had been broken, and he was not destined to -a much longer period of solitude. Less than a month had passed when -another visitor appeared upon the Silver Peak, this one with no higher -purpose than a desire to look upon the hermit. He also, however, -brought with him a gift, and remained and ate with Oman, who conversed -with him without much constraint, out of a kind of eager desire to -convince himself that the life of men was really as troublous as of -old. This fellow departed, carrying with him a glowing report of the -tractability of the holy man, and the great wisdom he had gained from -conversing with him. And this tale destroyed Oman’s peace; for it -brought upon him a perfect deluge of visitors, of every degree, male -and female, whom, in the beginning, he helplessly received, and gave of -his store of wisdom, replying to their innumerable questions with the -patience of a child. Among these pilgrims to his shrine were Poussa and -her guardian, who, when they learned that he still dwelt so close above -them, lost no time in seeking him. And Poussa, indeed, Oman greeted -with real pleasure; providing her with the choicest of his fare, of -which he by now had some variety; for many of his visitors brought -gifts of food, which, his stock of grain running low under the demand, -he perforce accepted. Moreover, he was now clad in a new robe, finer of -texture and richer as to border than any he had ever worn. From Poussa, -however, he would accept nothing, reminding her that she had long since -made him her debtor for what he could never repay. And the girl and her -guardian left the mountain top after promising to repeat their visit. - -For some weeks, buoyed up by the thought of genuine friendship, Oman -continued to let himself be seen, treated his visitors with courtesy, -and occasionally accepted some of their gifts. But after another -month of it, he grew sick of the servility of his visitors and the -transparent curiosity with which they regarded him; and, taking with -him only a pouch full of grain from his small store, he disappeared -into the forest of the east slope, and remained there for a fortnight, -till hunger drove him home again. It was sunset of an October day when -he reappeared upon the height, and, arriving at his cave, found it -already tenanted. Across the threshold, motionless, unconscious, lay -the body of an old man, shrunken and pitiably emaciated, clad in a -tattered robe, a much-used staff lying at his side. - -Oman’s anger at sight of the intruder quickly melted to pity. Kneeling -beside the prostrate body, he lifted one of the limp hands and began -to chafe it back to warmth. This being of no avail, he hurried to -the spring, returning with a wooden vessel full of water, which he -sprinkled upon the worn face and poured down the parched throat. It -had its effect. The stranger stirred uneasily, muttered a few words, -and suddenly opened his eyes. Oman, with a momentary throb of memory, -perceived that one of these eyes was brown, and the other a faded blue. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - THE WANDERER - - -For a long moment Oman bent close over the intruder, staring into those -strange orbs, his mind groping back, back, into the dim past, wondering -where it was that he had known them before. Then, as the old man -uttered a faint moan, he started to himself again, asking anxiously: - -“You are better? You can speak?” - -“I am better. Help me—to rise,” answered the other, feebly. - -Oman, newly compassionate, lifted the light form in his arms, carried -it farther into the cave, and laid the unbidden guest upon his own -grass bed in the far corner. Then he set about the tedious task of -making a fire. Before his sticks were ready, however, the newcomer, -summoning him, in a high and querulous voice, to the bed, gave him a -flint and steel, and a piece of inflammable substance that he carried -in his pouch. These Oman thankfully made use of, and presently a fire -burned again in the rude habitation. Then, out of his stores, the -hermit prepared a meal for both of them: rice and dried fruits, which, -with fresh water, formed a repast that seemed luxurious enough in -Oman’s eyes. When it was ready he approached the stranger, and asked -gently if he desired to be fed. For answer the old man drew himself -into a sitting posture, and then, after a moment’s effort, rose to his -feet, walked to the fire, and sat down; but before Oman had placed his -portion of the meal before him, he looked into the young man’s face, -and said, in a harsh and trembling tone: - -“This is charity that you give. I cannot repay you for the shelter. I -am a mendicant, old, feeble, very near to death.” - -“And I am a hermit. The lonely have need of little. What I possess, -therefore, I will share with you.” - -So they began their meal. It was a silent one. The stranger did not -make any effort to talk; and Oman, watching him, sank by degrees into -a fit of abstraction in which his memory moved, groping, searching, -wandering back through time to find the clew to his recognition of -this man. The stranger himself, though probably he had been in a -half-starved condition, showed no great eagerness for his food. He ate -slowly and little, and seemed to droop forward, while he sat, with the -weariness of age; and Oman began to wonder how he had ever reached such -a height as the Silver Peak. - -While they sat there at their meal, the sun set, and the swift twilight -faded. And when the old man rose and moved toward the mouth of the -cave, the stars were shining, close overhead. After gazing for a moment -at the shadowy lines of hills stretching away to the east and west, the -old man turned to his host, and said: - -“I will go out now and spend the night upon the mountain. For the -hospitality you have given me, I thank you, in the name of Siva.” - -“Out upon the mountain! Why, thou wilt perish there! The nights are -cold at this height. Nay, surely my cave is large enough for two. -Remain here till dawn, at least, O stranger.” - -The old man turned on him those peculiar eyes, in which there now -lurked an expression of suspicion, of craftiness, of secrecy:—the -expression of a dotard; and there was an evil smile upon the old, -trembling lips as he said: “No, no. I shall sleep alone. There is no -one to prevent me. Hermit, it is thirty years since I slept in a human -habitation. No, no. No one shall get the better of me in my sleep. No, -no. And look you,” his tone grew querulously savage, “look you that you -do not try to seek out my bed!” As he spoke these last words, one hand -crept up to a string that was about his throat, its end lost under his -robe, and the other went to his girdle, wherein a knife was stuck. - -Believing him now to be insane, Oman made no further protest; and -the man, with another look at him, went out into the darkness of the -eastern slope, with a step that tottered with weakness. - -Amazed by the strange incident, Oman turned into his cave again, and, -worn out with many days of privation and discomfort, lay down to sleep. -All night his dreams were troubled. The personality of the old man -had laid strong hold upon him, and he appeared in his sleep: now in -the guise of some grewsome spirit of evil, now as a guardian angel -shielding him from mysterious dangers. Oman woke at dawn, troubled -and scarcely refreshed, the old man still uppermost in his thoughts. -Possibly he had been feverish through the night; for his mouth was -parched, and he longed for water. In the cool twilight of new day he -rose, crossed the open plateau, and went a little down the eastern -slope to the spring. As he reached his destination, his ear caught a -faint sound that came from some distance to the right:—the sound of a -human voice, moaning, as if from pain. - -Oman hurriedly started toward it; and, after some moments’ search, came -upon the body of the wanderer, lying in a smooth space surrounded by -trees. His eyes were closed, his color ghastly, and, from his parted -lips there came, with every breath, the deep moan that had drawn Oman -thither. The hermit knelt beside his strange visitor and lifted one of -the cold hands. At the touch, the prostrate one opened his eyes, as -it were with an effort. Seeing Oman beside him, he murmured, with a -suggestion of relief in his tone: - -“Hermit—is it thou?” and immediately relapsed into a state of -semi-consciousness. - -Oman did, at once, the only thing to be done. Lifting the body in his -arms again, he carried it up the slope and back into the cave, where -the fire still smouldered; and, laying the old man again on his grass -bed, began to work over him. - -The day passed without his returning to a normal state. Oman knew that -he was very ill, but whether with some disease, or simply as the result -of old age and exposure, he could not tell. He warmed him, fed him, -bathed his brows with water, and sometimes caught what he took to be a -murmur of gratitude from the feeble lips. As night came on, he began to -fear lest the stranger should make some attempt to leave him again; but -the fear proved groundless. With the setting of the sun, a hot fever -rose in the aged and world-weary body. The sick one’s mind wandered -through far-off regions, and he talked, loudly, of fragmentary things. -For Oman there was no sleep that night. With a great pity for the -helplessness of his guest, he watched over him tenderly, doing for him -those things that only a woman would have thought of. During that night -of anxiety, there rose up in the heart of the hermit something that for -many years he had been striving vainly to kill. It was the hunger for -human love and affection, a desire for something to care for. Suddenly, -this last had been given him. This old man, querulous, evil-eyed, -unlovable bodily and mentally, had become sacred in his eyes, an object -of trust for which he should be answerable; and, in this thought, all -the starved affection in Oman’s nature welled up within him, till his -heart was full and overflowing with pain and joy. - -On the evening of the second day of the stranger’s illness came the -rains; and Oman knew that now, for the space of a month, at least, they -were safe from intrusion. He and his charge were alone at the mercy of -Nature; and, far from being dismayed at the prospect, Oman hailed it -with joy. For him, who was now become veritably the mountain’s child, -the old fear of the tempest was quite gone. Lightning and wind and rain -were his brothers, when they sported across the peaks; and, since they -brought him security against the impertinence of the people of the -valleys, he blessed them anew for their presence. Thus, relieved from -any untoward anxiety, he turned with all his strength and all his will -to the assistance of the worn and world-weary creature whom chance or -God had sent him to be his charge. - -In the beginning, Oman always hoped that a few days would see the old -man recovering, in some measure, his strength. But little by little -that hope faded away. The illness, however, was never very alarming. -By night there was always low fever, by day sometimes an abnormal -chilliness, which Oman frequently strove to overcome by the heat -of his own body. He would lie by the hour stretched along the bed, -clasping the old form to his own, literally feeding his strength into -the other. The stranger never tried his patience, at least. He was -perfectly passive, obeyed every suggestion of his guardian, ate and -drank whatever was given him, and never asked for more. Much of the -time, indeed, Oman was in doubt as to whether he knew what was going on -around him. By night his mind wandered, and he talked in his dreams; -but by day he generally lay like one in a stupor, heeding nothing -that passed. The one hour when he seemed to regain possession of his -faculties, was at sunset. Usually, at this time, he would open his -eyes, and, if Oman were not already beside him, would call for him, and -ask a few questions, or address him on topics of interest to himself, -the significance of which was lost on his listener. For a few days, -just at first, he would often ask to sleep apart from his companion, -would suggest vague dangers that were surrounding him, and certain -suspicious circumstances that he believed himself to have noticed. -From the general tenor of this talk, Oman gathered that he was in -constant fear of being robbed; and, from watching the hands that were -forever fumbling and playing with the string about his neck, he guessed -that this string must be attached to the object of his anxiety. He -was, therefore, scrupulously careful never to mention, and, so far as -was possible, not even to look at this string; and the result of his -consideration was what he hoped for:—very soon the old man dropped -his suspicions, and seemed to feel for Oman a spirit of friendliness, -almost affection. - -The latter half of October and the first fortnight in November were -wild weeks on the mountain top. It seemed as if the very elements were -struggling over that soul in the cave. Never had such storms of hail, -rain, wind, and snow raged round the Silver Peak. In all that time, -however, Oman’s weaker nature never once manifested itself. He was -using all the man and all the strength in him for the wanderer, whom -the wild weather greatly disturbed. Indeed, often, during the storms, -he would lie cowering with terror in his far corner of the shelter, -talking deliriously of strange things, or uttering wild and terrified -cries that wrung Oman’s very heart. - -It was early in the afternoon of a mid-November day that one of the -fiercest of these storms began, and lasted till early evening, when a -great and unexpected peace descended upon the earth. Remarkably, the -working of Nature was paralleled within the cave by an inexplicable -scene. All through the morning the stranger had been conscious, sane, -and unusually tranquil. After the noon meal he lay back on his bed -with the avowed intention of sleeping; and Oman seated himself in the -doorway of the hut, to watch the clouds roll up from the west and -swirl close round the peak, in moisture-laden mists. For some moments -the storm had been imminent; and Oman’s nerves were keyed for the -first rush of the wind. His back was toward the bed. He could not know -that the figure of the old man was suddenly upright. He could not see -the fire of madness burning in the weird eyes, nor perceive that the -shrunken muscles were as tense as those of a panther about to spring. -But, in the first roar of the blast, with the first, fierce sweep of -hail across the mountain top, the storm within also broke. Oman felt -himself seized about the throat in an iron grip, and heard the shouting -of the madman above the fury of the gale. - -The half hour that followed he never clearly remembered. There was a -fierce, almost mortal struggle. Locked in each other’s arms, the two -reeled and rolled about the cave, like animals. Oman fought simply -to preserve himself; but he was pitted against a madman’s strength. -Blinded and half-stunned by the suddenness of the attack, it was many -minutes before he got full control of his own forces. He soon became -aware that a flood of wild ravings was pouring from the old man’s lips; -and finally, at the very climax of the battle, when Oman felt his -strength giving way, the wanderer suddenly dropped his arms, and his -maniacal force seemed to throw itself into words, which he screamed out -till they sounded high above the gush and clamor of the storm: - -“Thou shalt not have it—thou shalt not, dog! Nor thou! Nor thou!—It is -mine! The Asra ruby is mine own, given me in payment for work.—Ah—ye -shall not take it from me! Faces—faces—faces!” - -The last words sank, grewsomely, to a whisper, as he struck out once -and again into the air at the phantom forms that closed him round. -Then, suddenly, without any warning, he flung both hands over his head, -reeled, and dropped in a heap at Oman’s side. - -For a moment or two the hermit stood perfectly still, exhausted by the -struggle that had passed. Then he took the unconscious man by the arms, -and dragged and pulled him back to the bed, on which he placed him, -limp and unresisting. Afterwards he went to replenish the fire, over -which he busied himself for some minutes. Finally he returned to the -doorway, and seated himself so that he could watch both the bed and the -world without. - -He was thoroughly tired. He could not remember ever experiencing such -a battle as the one just passed; and it had taken all his strength. In -the corner, the stranger had now begun to moan, faintly; but Oman made -no move to go to him. Just now he felt no desire to help a creature who -had so lately attempted his life. Rather, there was a new bitterness in -him. Had it not been always thus—a return of evil for good? This was -all that unselfishness or self-sacrifice had ever brought him. Where -was the divine justice to be found? Where was that universal law of -compensation? Alas! Experience was once more accomplishing its work, -narrowing its victim down to the little present, blotting out all the -breadth of view that reflection and solitude had brought. - -For many hours Oman sat there, musing bitterly, till the cloud-veiled -sun was down, and night, still filled with the rush of tempest, -advanced. Then, at last, he turned within, replenished his fire, and -cooked himself a meal of rice. As he ate, he glanced over toward the -stranger, who, however, made no sign. When he had finished, Oman crept -quietly to the bed, and looked down at his charge, to see if he had -need of anything. But he found the old man fast asleep. - -After a time he returned to his post in the doorway. He found the -night changed. Through torn and shimmering mists, the golden moon came -rolling up out of the hills, bringing with her a court of stars, and -driving the heavier clouds away down the western slope of the sky. -Peace had come upon the height. The ruin wrought by the storm was being -atoned for now. It was the hour of Nature’s repentance. Oman looked, -and his own soul grew calm. This scene was so familiar to him! How -many times, in his long sojourn on the height, had he not gazed upon -it thus, gloried in it, loved it? But to-night, when its mission had -been accomplished, and he had been restored to tranquillity, he turned -his thought to other things—one other thing:—a strange, foreboding -sense of recognition of some of the words spoken by the wanderer: “The -Asra ruby is mine own—given me in payment—” And it was Oman himself -who involuntarily added, in thought, the last words that his charge -had uttered: “Faces! Faces! Faces!” What were the faces rising round -him here, in the firelit night? What pale ghosts of the long ago were -taking shape? What was it now burning behind his brain, struggling -to break the barrier of the past? Oman bent his head, and clasped -it in his two hands, thinking in vain, yet ever with the sense that -remembrance was imminent. He was at a high pitch of nervousness when -the unwelcome voice reached his ears:—a voice faint, and weak, and low, -as if it came out of the depths of the bygone years: - -“Hermit—art thou there?” - -With a passing shiver, Oman rose and went to the bed where the old -man lay. As he approached, the stranger lifted one hand slightly, and -murmured: - -“Fear not, hermit. I am not now mad. Nay—all things are clear before -me, for I am approached by Rama.” - -Oman knelt beside him, and gazed earnestly into the gaunt, -white-bearded face, across which the fire cast a flickering light that -brought out every smallest line and wrinkle. An ashen pallor pinched -his features, giving them the unmistakable, waxen look that comes only -to those whose souls are poised for flight. Oman saw at once that death -was near; and his heart contracted, painfully: - -“Yes,—thou seest it,” said the wanderer, quietly, as he looked into -Oman’s eyes. “It is time. My spirit is glad of its release.” - -He lapsed into silence again; nor had Oman any desire to break the -stillness over which, as he knew, Rama brooded. The wanderer retained -his consciousness: seemed, indeed, to be lost in a revery, while Oman -sat watching him. After a time, in the course of his musing, the dying -man’s hand crept up to that string which was about his neck; nor, this -time, did his touch stop with the string. With an air of delivering -himself of a heavy secret, he drew, from beneath his loose garment, a -tiny, golden box. Lifting this in his thumb and first finger, he turned -his face to Oman, and began to speak, disjointedly, at first, as if he -were thinking aloud; then, by degrees, launching into narrative form, -with a story that held Oman spell-bound at his side. - -“Look—it is here,” he observed, quietly. “Here is the Asra ruby; the -great stone that I have kept my own for thirty years. Here it is, in -this box, safe to the end. And Fidá is gone—and I cannot—See, hermit! -It lies in this little box, that treasure. Thou hast never made move -to take it from me since I have dwelt with thee; and therefore it -shall be thine after my death. Yes, I have said it. Thine. But take -it not from me until I have passed. Dost thou hear, hermit?” His tone -grew threatening and harsh. “I am dying, and thou mayest take it from -me dead.” He glared again into Oman’s face; but, seeing the gentle -expression there, lost his sudden angry fear, and dropped again into -the lighter tone. - -“The years—the years are many since it came to me. I was not then a -young man; and I had done much wrong in the world. My name—no one knows -it now. I have never told it since that night. But I may speak it at -last. My name is Churi, and I was a slave, a doctor, in the palace of -Mandu.” - -“Mandu!” echoed Oman, quickly, in a strange tone. - -“Yes, I was a doctor there, as well as a slave; and I was valued -and trusted by my Rajah. But I wanted my freedom. I planned to buy -my freedom, that I might no longer be called ‘slave’. And then Fidá -was brought thither. The Rajah, returning from war in the north, -brought back a noble captive who was made royal cup-bearer, and -afterwards raised to high favor in the palace. But Fidá loved. Ha! He -loved a woman of the zenana—not a slave, mind, but a wife, and the -_favorite_ wife. And she loved him also. And because I guarded a -door of the zenana by night, he gave me the ruby to open the door to -him. And I, hoping by it to buy my freedom, accepted it, knowing that -it was the life of his race.” - -“This man—his name,” suggested Oman, trembling a little. - -“His name?—I have said it,—Fidá el-Asra. That was his name; and the gem -was the gem of the Asra. When he gave it away, he became cursed; and -the evil fell on all of us. For many weeks I sanctioned the crime in -the zenana: for months played I traitor to my Rajah, for the sake of -the ruby, and because I loved Fidá and Ahalya, and because they were -happy together. Then at last the slave fell sick of a sickness that -would not be cured, though I even returned the ruby to him to be worn, -in order that he might be well again. But it could not help him then; -and he gave it back to me. - -“It was spring. I hoped daily for the coming of a certain merchant -to whom I would sell the ruby for the price of my freedom. But alas! -freedom and vengeance came upon me together, without the selling of the -stone. There was a new war. Rai-Khizar-Pál marched away, leaving his -favorite slave to be guardian of the young lord Bhavani, his son. Then, -in the fair April, it fell upon us:—death! death! death! - -“We found it in the early dawn,—Kasya and I. We found the body of -Ragunáth, dead, in the champak bushes, by the water-palace. He was -lying in his blood.—And Ahalya and Fidá had not come back from him. -They were gone. Soon everything must be known; and I should surely be -betrayed to my death when Kasya learned the things that I had done; -for there was a little Arab slave—Ahmed—who also knew. Therefore, by -night, I stole away from Mandu, and out—out—into the hills, carrying -the ruby with me. Blood was upon it. Blood it had brought, and with -the fire of blood it gleamed. I dared not part with it. It ate into my -flesh, and yet I could not sell it. I suffered from heat and from cold, -from hunger and thirst and nakedness, while I bore on my body this -great wealth. For thirty years, hermit, I have wandered over the earth, -carrying fear with me. Each man has worn for me the mask of Rama. Each -bite of food has had for me the flavor of poison. I have wandered the -Vindhyas over, from east to west, from Dumoh to Khambot. And ever -Mandu has drawn me back toward her. Terror and death have dogged my -footsteps; yet have I lived long, till I am very old. Suffering, -hardship, sickness, most hideous remorse—all these I have known, and -still have clung to life. My spirit was broken long ago; but I have not -wanted to die. I should have fought with any that threatened to take -life from me. Tell me, Wise One, what is this love of living? Why have -I, most miserable of creatures, clung so long to it? - -“But behold—behold—the face of Rama stares at me, from the shadow -yonder! Back, Rama! Back yet for a little! Back!” For a second, the old -man lifted himself from the bed, and levelled a tremulous hand at the -haunting visage. Then he fell, weakly, and for a long time was still. -Oman, sitting beside him, still under the spell, could not speak. -Finally Churi himself broke the silence again, this time in a voice -that had faded to a thin whisper: - -“I am dying, hermit. Rama’s face grows brighter in the gloom. The -visage is less fearful, now. My madness is gone. I see clearly. But for -many years I have been mad. It is the ruby. It holds evil in it for all -but the race of Asra. I had dreamed of returning it to them. But thou, -who hast sheltered me and fed me, to thee I say: the ruby is cursed. I -warn thee of it. Better burn it on my body.—Hark!—hark!—the drums of -Rama! I am dying, hermit. Take me by the hand!” - -Feebly he held out his shrunken fingers, and Oman clasped them close -and steadied him. Then Rama and his hosts came by, and halted for a -moment at the cave till their number was joined by one. Thereafter they -moved on again, beating their muffled drums. And Oman was left alone on -the Silver Peak, with the body of Churi, the dying fire, and the gem, -enclosed in its golden box. Long Oman sat there, beside the body of the -vagabond, thinking. Finally, when the dawn was still three hours away, -he rose and made ready for his task. But first, perhaps unconscious of -what he did, he loosened the treasure from the stiffening fingers of -the dead, and slipped the string, with its yellow box, about his own -neck. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - SUNRISE - - -By night, on the eastern slope, Oman, under the light of the stars -and moon, built a great funeral pyre of dry wood, brought from his -store in the cave. There was in it neither sandal nor aloes, nor yet -frankincense, nor any fragrant spice to cover the stench of burning -human flesh. But the dry fagots would blaze high and fast; and the gay -flames would quickly purify the long-tenanted body. When all was ready, -Oman returned to the cave, and, lifting the still form of the old man, -bore it out into the air of heaven and laid it on the pyre, its face -turned toward the west, where the moon was now quietly sinking. Then, -with a blazing stick brought from the cave, he lighted the funeral pyre -and stood watching the flame-wreath that rose in a halo round the hoary -head. - -To an Indian, this purification by fire is no infamy, nor is there -anything horrible in it. It is his sacred ceremony for the beloved -dead. While Oman made his preparations for it, he had suffered no -repulsion. And yet now, as he watched the dead form—so pinched, so -pallid, so unreal, lying complacently on the great fire-bed, with the -flames curling around the flesh: now, as the long beard and white hair -were singed away, and the blackened visage grinned in horrid baldness, -a thrill shot through Oman’s breast, and, stifling a cry, he turned -and ran from the spot, up, up, through the wood, and into the open, on -the height. There he threw himself down, beside a giant boulder, and, -burying his head in his arms, gave himself up to a new repulsion and a -new heart-sickness. - -The moon had set; and the world was very still. The crackling of the -fire and the hiss that went with it were the only audible sounds. -Animal noises had ceased. A far, faint breeze stirred the tree-tops; -but there was no suggestion of the fierce rains of the previous day. -The whole sky was softly luminous with waning moon-light and the -redoubled splendor of stars. Far below, the valleys and the base of -the hills were lightly swathed in mist. Peace brooded over the great -Vindhyas; and gradually Oman’s horror was swept away. The sweet night -air cooled his frame and dried the tears that had wet his face. -Weariness overcame his excitement at the events of the day and night; -and he fell into a kind of stupor. He was not asleep, for he was still -conscious of the workings of nature:—the setting of the moon, the -dark hour, the dying glow of the fire, whose work was done, and the -heavy wheeling through the sky of two or three night birds. His brain, -however, was numb. He neither thought, nor felt the desire to think. -His head rested against the rock, and his eyes closed. An hour passed; -and, by degrees, the darkness gave way to a faint, shadowy light. The -night was over. Day was at hand. - -In this first grayness, Oman lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then -he rose and looked down to the wood, where the fire had been. For a -moment he hesitated, but finally turned away. He could not go there -yet. For a few moments he paced up and down the broad, treeless space -on the height, and then returned to his rock, and set his face to the -wondrous east. - -The far horizon was streaked with palest rose and yellow, melting into -a shadowy sky. Above this bed of color, the starry rushlights one by -one melted away. Only the morning star, the jewel in Ushas’ frontlet, -remained, flashing in the now deepening crimson, till Ushas herself, -having opened the sun-gates, passed from the sky and returned into the -land of the gods. The colors were intensified as new light crept up -the heavens; and above the gold was a band of pale, clear green that -merged softly into the upper blue. Now, down the slope, and over all -the wooded hillsides, rose a musical murmur, the song of waking things: -birds, and insects. And fearlessly they performed the morning hymn, -undisturbed by any thought of man. By now the creatures of the jungle -had returned to their lairs, the night’s prowling ended; and the world -was waking from dread to the joy of new day. - -There was a long, still pause. The clear light grew clearer, the -crimson deepened with inner fire, two or three little cloud-boats near -the horizon were gay with rosy glow; but the shimmering valley mists -had passed quietly away. The world was ready and waiting. Yet still -Surya, rejoicing in the magnificence of his pageantry, delayed his -coming, till the man upon the mountain top, impatient of the time, -bethought him of his treasure, pulled the golden box from beneath his -robe, opened it, and let the contents fall into his hand. The ruby -seemed a talisman; for, as Oman held the clear stone against the sky, -the first fire-beam shot above the horizon, and the great, flaming -wheel rolled up from behind a far-off hill. The world broke into the -climax of its morning song; and, in his heart, Oman also sang: strange -words, fitted to a wondrous melody. Then, by degrees, he was silent -again, his eyes, lowered from the too dazzling light, fixed upon the -fiery heart of Churi’s legacy—the Asra ruby. - -As Oman gazed into the scintillating depths of this rare and wonderful -stone, he was thrown into a kind of waking slumber, a trance, in -which scenes of a dim-lit past crowded upon him. Churi’s tale -returned:—the young prince in captivity, who had bought his love with -this stone:—Fidá el-Asra. Oman saw him, clearly, standing in a small -and richly furnished room, beside a woman clad in clinging, scarlet -draperies, a wreath of poppies woven in her heavy hair. This woman’s -face grew more distinct, and shone almost transparent, till, as she -gazed into the face of the man, a faint smile lighted her lips. But -there was a mournful sadness in her lustrous eyes; and, seeing these -eyes, Oman’s heart throbbed with understanding. - -This man and this woman, burning in the depths of the ruby, were no -vision. Nay, he knew them both: _he_, Oman, the outcast, the -hermit. But how explain the reality of the dream? Had he sheltered the -twain in his own breast? How else came he to know their suffering: -to suffer with them? How else was it that he saw the dark shadow of -crime lying on both their hearts? How else that a gurgle and rush of -water sounded in his ears, and that he shuddered as he felt the chilly -contact? How else could he realize the terror of helplessness that had -been upon these two souls, as they rose together from the embracing -waters, to that space where water could not hide their deed? How, -finally, was it that, straightway after this, he was himself again, -standing upon the height where his battle had been fought and won, -and where the vision had appeared? The jewel was still glowing in his -fingers; the sun was only just upon the edge of the horizon;—but he had -lived a year in three minutes. Did this mendicant’s gem hold within it -some baleful magic? With a sudden sense of revulsion he dropped the -ruby back into its box, thrust it out of sight under his robe, and, -shaking away the still clinging dream, walked slowly back into his cave. - -Fortunately his fire had not quite gone out; and, with a little effort, -he revived it. Then he cooked himself some food, ate, threw himself -upon the bed where Churi had died, and fell into a deep sleep. - -When he awoke, it was afternoon. Clouds were rolling up the west, and -there was promise of more rain. Oman went slowly out of his cave, with -a new sense of desolation on him. The air was cold. The surrounding -hills lay wrapped in still, gray shadows. All the morning joy had left -the world. Reluctantly, with dread in his heart, Oman made his way -down the eastern slope to the place of the funeral pyre. There lay a -heap of wood ashes, mingled with white bones, a few scraps of cloth, -and some pieces of charred and blackened flesh. That was all. The fire -had done its work well. A week of rains and wind, and no trace would -remain of him who had ascended the Silver Peak to die. The sight was -less dreadful than Oman had feared; and he returned to his cave with a -lighter heart. - -During the remainder of the daylight, Oman occupied himself in a -desultory way by reviewing his depleted resources. His fire-wood was -nearly gone; and, the woods around being soaked with rains, it would be -a month or more before a new stock could be gathered and sufficiently -dried to burn. His food supply was also very low. This fall he had -neglected to care for his grain field; and the crop, which, by this -time, should have been harvested, still lay in the soil, draggled with -mud and mildewed with wet. He had yet a little millet from the last -season, and some rice and dried dates brought by visitors, before the -rains. But, fast as he might, these could not suffice for the winter. -Tired and heavy-hearted, he sat in the doorway of his cave and watched -night and the storm come on together. Then, while the rain beat into -his shelter, and a fierce wind raged without, he rekindled his fire -in the farthest corner of the cave, and lay down upon his grass bed, -thinking to sleep. - -But rest was not yet for him. By degrees he was seized with a great -restlessness of mind and body. He tossed and turned, nor was able to -shut his eyes, which stared wide into the light-streaked gloom. His -brain burned, and was filled with chaotic visions. The spirit of Churi -moved close beside him; and he chilled with dread. Where was the calm -of his former high estate? Alas! It had of late become a mockery. On -his breast the ruby burned; and at length he took it out and gazed -at it by the light of the fire. Again it brought upon him strange -thoughts, bathed him in a stream of remembrances so vivid that he felt -himself of another life. Under this influence, after a long time, he -fell asleep, only to find his dreams taking the same direction as -his waking visions. He found himself standing on a great eminence, a -vast plateau, rising sheer out of a fertile plain. Behind him were -rice-fields, trees, running water, and vast buildings. He was standing -with his back to one of these buildings, which was half hidden in -clustering tamarinds and bamboo; and the structure was called, in his -dream, the water-palace. In the dying light of day he stood there, -looking down over the far plain, to a broad river that rushed through -the fields. His old calm was upon him, for he was at home. This, he -perceived, was the land of his desire, the place where he should -find welcome and rest. And so the vision faded and his sleep became -dreamless. - -When he awoke, the morning was well along. He found that he still -clasped the ruby in his right hand; and, returning it to its box, he -prepared to go about the duties of his day. He was determined now to -force himself to a long period of reflection, as a remedy for the -restlessness brought about by recent happenings. But, to his great -disturbance, he found his determination easier made than carried out. -True, he meditated. Long habit had not so basely deserted him. But his -meditations were no longer satisfying, and, when they were over, the -dreaded mood, a restless loneliness, an unquenchable yearning, crept -upon him again, till he soothed himself anew with thoughts of the ruby, -the power of which never failed. - -All this could end only in one way. For three weeks longer he dwelt on -his height; and then, suddenly abandoning a useless battle, made ready -to leave the mountain top. At dawn of a December day he stood for the -last time on the summit where he had dwelt for so many years; and then, -at last, not without a pang of regret, he turned his steps downward, -toward the haunts of men. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - MANDU IN MALWA - - -Late in the evening of the same day that he had left the height, -Oman appeared at the door of Poussa’s hut; and found that the years -had changed it little. Poussa, now a woman of some authority in the -village, though she was not yet thirty, received him with joyful -acclaim, and with a reverence that she gave neither to the head-man -nor to the priest of her community. She feasted him on rice and curry, -millet bread, dried fruits, and sweetmeats, and gave him to drink out -of a jar of mellow (not too precious) wine. They ate alone, he and she; -and he slept the whole night in her hut before she deigned to acquaint -the village that the great hermit was among them. - -Oman, who had expected to spend the next day at the loom, to pay his -debt of food to Poussa, found himself, instead, a centre of attraction -to the whole village, and was obliged to submit, for a matter of twelve -hours, to the entertainment of the chief citizens of the hamlet, and -as many visitors as had time to reach him that day. At dusk he was -borne to the room of the gods in an old palanquin, carried on the -shoulders of eager Vaisyas. And there a sacrifice was conducted, and -Soma was drunk, and fires were lighted in the council square. They also -demanded of him an address; and Oman talked, preaching a little of his -own creed, couched in the simplest language. His audience, accustomed, -like all Hindoos, to thoughts of the broadest abstraction, gave close -attention, and, getting his meaning, approved it, because of the -novelty of his ideas. Later he was borne back, triumphant, to Poussa’s -hut. - -That night Oman could not sleep for very joy. Here at last was—success. -At last men had given him free right of brotherhood, and more. He had -known the respect, the reverence, of his own kind. By a miracle, the -outcast was become the acclaimed among men. The cost of it, those -bitter years of loneliness and despair, was not counted now. Oman knew -only that he was welcome, was honored among the people; and his heart -went out to them in praise and thanksgiving. - -Nevertheless, he stayed only a day longer in this mountain hamlet. His -departure was not easy. Through Poussa it had become known that he -was Brahman-born; and immediately a post as second priest was offered -him by Nala himself. Here Oman might have ended his days, universally -revered and beloved. But Fate was pulling at his sleeve. The yearning -for the dreamland, the land of the Ruby, had not left him; and his -heart told him that it actually existed, while Fate whispered in his -ear, bidding him go find it. Thus, obedient to the voice, he said -farewell to his new friends, detached Poussa’s clinging hands from his -knees, smoothed the rough hair back from her face, pressed his lips to -her brow, and then set off, alone, into the jungle. - -Now began his period of wandering:—the long progress through the -Vindhyas, which occupied many months. It was not a time of suffering. -Long inured to the greatest hardships of the body, neither fatigue nor -hunger dismayed him, nor did the mountain woods and ravines hold for -him any terror. The animals of the wild would not molest him. Indeed, -he encountered singularly few. The winter weather was pleasant; the -sun’s rays mild. With a stout wooden staff in his hand, he journeyed -leisurely, halting at any villages he came to, finding welcome and -acclaim wherever he arrived; for his appearance proclaimed his -estate. It became his regular custom to preach in the market-place; -and he never lacked an audience. Perhaps from the memory of Hushka, -perhaps out of the depths of his own solitude, he had drawn a kind -of picturesque eloquence that rushed upon him as he began his talks, -and drew his listeners to him like a magnet. An Indian will listen to -any fantastic creed, interest himself in any philosophy, nor deem it -heresy to his million gods. It is, with him, either the instinctive -knowledge that Truth in any form is good; or else, and more probably, -a kind of inconsequential, dreamer’s grasping of all happily expressed -maxims that bear the stamp of understanding. At this time, Oman made no -attempt to get to the root of his success. It was enough for him that -it existed. Joy walked with him on the road; and the stimulus of his -popularity seemed to know no reaction. - -Fortunately, he never felt any desire to take up a permanent abode in -these mountain towns. Some of them were of fair size, boasted of a -petty ruler, and had some military force. Many had open offices for -such as he, where he might have taken a place of rank. Almost all were -set in surroundings of great natural beauty, calculated to appeal -strongly to Oman’s inbred love of nature. But he never entertained the -least idea of settling in one of them. His early purpose, vague as it -was, lay enshrined in his heart. He was a pilgrim to the land of vision -and memory: a high and holy place, peopled with ghosts of beloved -dead, a shrine that all twice-born love to carry in their hearts. For -months he hid his desire. He longed constantly to make inquiry of the -men among whom he passed, but he always hesitated, fearing to be taken -for a fool should he speak of a country the name of which he could not -tell, and no part of which he could definitely describe. - -The winter months drew along pleasantly; but, with the coming of spring -and the thought of the hot weather, his restlessness and the vision in -his heart grew, till one day he was driven to speech. He was walking -through a narrow valley, a long strip of which had been recently -ploughed for the first time; and a man was at work there, sowing -millet. On the edge of the field Oman paused, till the farmer, bag at -belt, right arm working mechanically in and out, came slowly toward -him, and then halted. - -“Fair spring and a rich crop to thee!” said Oman. - -“Alas! It is too late in the year for a heavy crop! But a peaceful -journey to thee, reverend sir,” returned the man, civilly. - -Then Oman, resolutely putting away his fears, began, in haste: “Friend, -I am seeking a far country:—a kingdom that lies on the edge of the -hills, high in the sunlight, while below it are a broad plain and a -great river. Canst thou tell me the name of such a place?” - -The man looked at him, first surprised, and then puzzled, but not -asking a closer description. “A high kingdom,” he muttered, knitting -his brow. Oman’s chance words had caught his imagination. “Ah! -Perhaps—there is a plateau, lying five days’ journey to the west and -south, that is called Mandu—” - -“Mandu! Mandu! It is the name! Churi said it! Tell me, stranger, tell -me again! The place lies west and south? A plateau! Thou hast been -there?” - -The farmer shook his head. “Nay, I am newly come from the north. But -traders and mendicants have spoken of it. It is well known:—a Rajah’s -land. South of it, below, is the Narmáda, the holy stream. Doubtless -thou wouldst bathe there. But Mandu, I have been told, is to be reached -from the mountains by a causeway. Yes, I have heard much of that place.” - -Oman’s face was alight, and he longed for money wherewith to repay -the man for his information. The farmer, however, expected no such -unusual thing as money out of a mendicant, and hoped for no more than -a blessing from this one, which he got. Then Oman passed on, his face -turned to the southwest. - -For five days, and more than five, he journeyed toward the sunset. He -was all aflame with eagerness and delight; but he would ask his way no -more. He had a strange notion that it would be a shame to him were he -unable, now, to find the country of his heart’s desire; and he kept his -eagerness within himself, never allowing himself to say to any one the -words that burned on his lips: “I go south, to Mandu! To the plateau of -Mandu!” though the pride in him was almost too great to be restrained. - -It had served him better, indeed, if he had put away his hesitancy. -For he was now in the region where all men knew Mandu, and he might -have saved himself a weary walk. At the end of six days’ journeying, -about the full-moon day of the Sravana month (March), he came to the -southern boundary of the Vindhyas, and, through an opening on the -slope, looked out over the Dekkhan. It was the first time in eleven -years that he had seen the plain; and there was joy in the sight,—but -anxiety also. For where was Mandu, high Mandu, “that stands on the -edge of the plain”? Had he come too far to the west, or was he yet too -near the rising sun? Fortunately, a little below him, on the hillside -above the flat land, he perceived a town, whither he directed his -steps, and there, because it was become a necessity, asked his way. -He was answered, readily, that Mandu was still a day’s journey to the -east; and he was furthermore given directions so minute, that, pausing -only to eat a piece of bread and drink some goat’s milk offered by a -hospitable peasant, he started again that same night, under the light -of the radiant moon. Again he took his way up into the hills, following -the course laid out for him, until, about dawn, he found a well-kept -roadway such as he had not before seen in the Vindhyas. And now, his -uncertainty banished at last, he lay down beside the road, in the -shadow of a pipal tree, to sleep. - -When he awoke, it was noon. For a little while he lay still, puzzled -and thinking, for he had slept heavily. Suddenly it rushed upon him, -the great sense of finality. And, with a prayer in his heart, he rose -up, and took the road, starting southward at a rapid pace. The way -wound round and down, through a rocky gorge which he had a vague sense -of having passed through before. Then it began to re-ascend, and Oman’s -excitement grew. He felt that he was nearing the climax of his life. It -was just this that he had unconsciously waited for through the years. -And now it had come! At the top of the eminence the veiling trees -suddenly parted, and, in the flooding light of afternoon, he found -himself looking along the stone-built causeway that Rai-Khizar-Pál, -returning from triumphant war in the north, had crossed, with his -captives, thirty-one years before. - -Faint, quick-breathing, Oman halted, leaning on his staff, to gaze -upon the scene. It appeared to him most natural, most right, that, at -this moment, with its familiar little whirring sound, a slender-winged -gray bird should come hovering up from the wood and seek shelter in -his breast. With the advent of this companion creature, his vision was -doubled. Twice before had he known this road. There had been a bride of -Dhár, and a captive from Delhi. The feelings of both were mingled in -him:—bitter pain, veiled joy, curiosity, hope, weariness. He saw the -bright pageants pass slowly before him; and then, leisurely, he moved -downward to the bridge. - -All was exactly as it had been, thirty years before. From the -watch-towers the soldiers looked out and up into the hills, taking -no notice of the solitary, toil-worn mendicant who passed toward the -plateau. If they perceived the bird in his bosom, they only thought -him some dealer in magic who had trained the creature to be his -oracle. Nor, indeed, did Oman notice them. They were part of the whole -scene, but not to be singled out. His eyes rested on the fields that -stretched along beside two roads that wound, one to the right, the -other to the left, along the plateau. Which of the roads to choose, he -scarcely knew. Memory did not serve. The fields, already planted, were -empty; and he bethought himself that it was the time of the Sravana -ceremony, when all the people would be in the town, sacrificing and -celebrating in temple and bazaar. At a venture, he turned to the left, -and walked for some time past fertile rice-fields, and through a -patch of woodland; and all the while, as he went, his heart was full -to bursting, and his eyes were bright with tears. For he had come -home—home. This land was home. He knew the feel of it. The very air -was familiar to his cheek. The little sounds of animal and bird life -were as the sounds of childhood heard again after many years. A great -restfulness pervaded him. The tears that were in his eyes fell, slowly. -Then his heart swelled with a mighty prayer of joy and thanksgiving. -His way had been very long, very dark and dreary; but it was traversed -now. His struggle and his loneliness were over. Behind him lay the -wilderness, and all about him was the promised land. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - A BROTHER OF THE SOUL - - -Thirty years had passed over Mandu since that strange time of death, -when, in a single day and night, a Rajah, his minister, his Ranee, and -his favorite slave had perished, each in his own way. During those -thirty years Bhavani, the only son of Rai-Khizar-Pál, had been nominal -ruler of Mandu. A boy of eleven at the time of his father’s death, he -had of his own will placed himself and Mandu under the guardianship of -Manava, a minister grown old in service, who acted as regent till, on -his twentieth birthday, the young man took the cares of government upon -his own shoulders. So well did Manava acquit himself during the nine -years of his regency, that, at the end of that time, had he chosen to -take the throne from Bhavani and install himself thereon, Mandu would -willingly have hailed him Rajah. But if Manava had been capable of such -an act, he would not have been the ruler he proved himself to be; and -he had his reward for faithful labor in seeing, before he died, his -young charge come to be called “beloved” by his people. - -Bhavani, indeed, spite of many evil influences that surrounded his -youth, had grown into a beautiful manhood. From some unknown source he -had gained that kind of spirituality that is not inherited, and yet -is scarcely to be acquired. His father before him had been high judge -of his people. Bhavani was their friend. If Rai-Khizar-Pál had been -absolutely just, Bhavani was more than that: he was charitable. The -old Rajah had been most of all a warrior, loving the sound of battle, -first for himself, and afterward for the glory it would bring his -people. Bhavani hated war, because it carried with it death; and for -death he cherished a horror of which he never spoke. It had been born -in the moment when, stealthily following Kasya and Churi in their dread -morning’s search, he had looked on the body of Ragunáth, stiff and -bloody, under the champaks near the water-palace, where he had himself -left the Lady Ahalya the evening before. No one had ever got Bhavani to -tell what he knew of the happenings of that night. In the beginning, -he did not himself understand the part he had played in the tragedy; -but the horror of it was rooted deep in his secret soul. And, little -by little, as he came to manhood, he began to realize something of the -drama that had been played before his childlike innocence; though, with -strange perversity, his interpretation did injustice to the slave. And -the memory of the two he had loved, Ahalya and Fidá, became embittered; -for he endured for them all the shame that they had never known -themselves. - -The influence of this dreadful incident of his childhood had had -an incalculable effect on his character. To it Mandu owed the -fastidiousness of this beloved ruler. There was but one misdeed in the -calendar of crime toward which Bhavani was immovably severe. By him -adulterers were punished to the fullest extent of the law. Nor had he -ever been known to consider an extenuating circumstance. He was himself -a man of the most rigid chastity; and, though he conformed so much -to custom as to marry while still very young, he had but one wife, -attended by women only. And, there being no zenana in his palace, he -employed no eunuchs elsewhere. - -These things considered, one strange act of his extreme youth must also -be recorded. When, after three or four days of expectancy and dread, -the bodies of those two who had drowned themselves together were washed -ashore, by Narmáda waters, many miles to the west, Manava, following -the old Hindoo superstition, prepared to burn the body of the Ranee -there on the shore, and to erect over her a fitting tomb, where, on -the anniversary of her death, a sacrifice might take place for the -salvation of her soul. Young Bhavani, then under the close supervision -of instructors, heard, in some way, of this plan of the regent, went to -him in the council hall, and commanded, by the blood of his father that -flowed in his veins, that the body of Fidá should be burned with that -of Ahalya, and their ashes buried together. Manava heard him in shocked -silence; and then explained that a Ranee might not be so dishonored. -Useless objection. Bhavani insisted. And, after a time, he won his -way. Thus, now, for thirty years, the two had slept in a little stone -temple, by the bank of the river which still chanted in their dead ears -its plashing song. - -Since the death of Rai-Khizar there had been no war in Mandu. After the -battle on the plain of Dhár, in which, in spite of the fall of one of -the Indian leaders, the Mohammedans had sustained a heavy defeat, the -invaders had not again penetrated so far into Malwa. They were still -within their northern strongholds; and the Dekkhan, hearing naught of -the crossing of the Gunga, nor of Agra, nor Benares, the merciless -conquest of the holy of holies, went its way placidly, catching not -so much as an echo of the far-ringing warcry of the men of Yemen with -their Prophet’s sword. The relations between Dhár and Mandu, always of -the friendliest, had been further cemented by the marriage of Bhavani -with a daughter of the neighboring province. But, happily for Bhavani’s -views, the brother state had no enemy against whom Mandu was supposed -to take part. - -The years passed in peace and well-doing until the Rajah attained his -five and thirtieth year. Then came an event which, for a long time, -seemed to have turned the severely upright ruler quite out of his -course, and to have made him a man of men, erring and weak. From some -distant land, none knew where, there came to Mandu one of those purely -Indian characters, known long before the time of the great Buddha: a -religious courtesan, a woman of supreme beauty and magnetic power, -by name Zenaide. How, by what means, she got her first audience of -Bhavani, no one knew. But within a month after that, she was installed -in the long empty water-palace, where she dwelt as a queen among men, -or, as men whispered, the Queen of a King. That whisper was an ugly -one, but it found ear for a long time. Bhavani, immovable by wiles, -impervious to temptation, adamant against force, seemed voluntarily to -have fallen to this woman; and it was not till after his death that -his people perceived how their Rajah, unconquered by her, had been her -conqueror, ruling her beauty and her will by the inviolable purity of -his mind. But, at the time when Oman came to Mandu, in the Rajah’s -forty-second year, no one understood what were the relations between -the mistress of the beautiful little palace, and the King of the great -building near by. They were much together. Zenaide, indeed, was with -no one else. How, then, should men not wonder, and watch, and whisper -together? - -It was March, and the half-dead world had been undergoing its annual -rejuvenescence. In the late afternoon, when the shadows are long, and -bird-calls are beginning again, Bhavani, the day’s state at an end, -went walking slowly down the open garden that bordered the road between -the two palaces, and finally halted at the stone parapet built along -the edge of the plateau. Two slaves followed the King, but halted at a -respectful distance as he paused, gazing down over the green plain and -its shining river. After a few seconds he noticed that another than he -stood near by, also leaning upon the parapet:— a man, tall and gaunt, -clad in a much-worn garment, his head and feet bare. Something about -the figure drew Bhavani’s attention, and, looking farther, he suddenly -caught the man’s eyes—great, limpid eyes, laden with the sorrow of -the world. A significant look passed between the two. Oman had also -swept the figure before him, upward, from the embroidered shoes, over -the rich dress, to the face, finely chiselled, but cast in a mould of -melancholy. There he who had won purity through the flames of hell, -gazed upon him to whom birth had given all good, and who had taken upon -his slender shoulders some of the burden of the world. In the first -instant of the meeting eyes, each found kinship in the other. - -Bhavani moved a little toward the stranger, and asked, in a suppressed -voice: - -“Thou art newly come to Mandu?” - -“I crossed the causeway two days since.” - -“Whence art thou come?” - -“Out of the hills.” - -“And whither—art thou going?” - -“I do not know, Lord Rajah.” - -“Thou knowest me!” - -“Thou—art Bhavani,” muttered Oman, softly, to himself. - -The Rajah recoiled a step or two, gazing at Oman earnestly. Then he -asked, in a new voice: “_Who art thou?_” - -Oman had now recovered himself enough to reply to Bhavani’s question -literally. “I am called Oman Ramasarman. I was born a Brahman.—I have -been a Bhikkhu, and a hermit, dwelling in the hills, whence I descended -to Mandu.” - -For a moment, Bhavani’s expression was puzzled. Then he shook himself, -slightly, woke from his dream, and observed: “Thou lookest younger than -I. What is thine age?” - -Oman shook his head. “My lord, I do not know. When I went up to dwell -on the Silver Peak, my age was nineteen years. But how long I lived -there—fifteen, twenty years, perhaps,—I cannot say. It is a lifetime, -and yet again it seems to me as if I had not lived there at all: as if -I had only known a great vision, that has faded away.” - -“Thou wast young, very young, to go up into the hills alone. And, from -thy face, it was indeed many years before thou camest down. Then tell -me, Oman: was that solitude very terrible to endure?” - -Oman’s eyes grew vague. It was as if he looked into the infinite as he -replied: “Yes, it was terrible. I am told that not many can live as -did I, in utter solitude, and, at the end of five years, still retain -reason and speech. The Chelahs that go up into the fastnesses, for -prayer and the study of sacred manuscripts, go two together, and, by -companionship, preserve their minds. But I had no companion. I was -outcast of men.” - -“Outcast! Thou? A Brahman?” - -“Outcast! Of what do ye speak?” came a woman’s voice, from behind them. - -Both men turned, instantly; and Oman drew in his breath. Before him -stood the most beautiful woman that he had ever dreamed of. She was -tall and voluptuously built; and her coloring was radiant. According -to the privilege of her class, she wore no veil over her face; and as -a covering for her heavy, red-gold hair, she had only an openwork cap -of turquoise-studded gold, bordered with a broad band of the polished -stones. Her dress was of blue, heavily embroidered; and a wide sash, of -palest willow-green, spread smoothly over her hips, and was clasped low -in front with a turquoise crescent. - -The two gazed at her in involuntary, silent admiration; and she bore -the look easily, as one accustomed to it. Presently, however, Bhavani -returned to himself, and addressed her: - -“Thou art well come, Zenaide. Behold, here is Oman Ramasarman, a sage, -who has come out of the hill fastnesses, to dwell in Mandu.” - -Then, turning to Oman, he added: “This is the Lady Zenaide, most -beautiful, most wise: my friend.” - -Oman looked at her again, and made his salutation. It was not necessary -that he should be told her estate:—that she belonged to the only -educated class of women in India. And, in spite of himself, the sight -of her gave him a strong feeling of mingled pleasure and of pain, that -had in it a further reminiscence of this land. There had been a time -when looks like hers had been for him.—But how?—and where? - -If the two men were preoccupied, Bhavani with Oman, Oman with his own -thoughts, not so Zenaide. She was in the lightest of her moods, and -she talked rapidly, her musical voice sounding like running water in -Oman’s ears, as she addressed now one, now the other, now neither -or both of them. To the wanderer, she had added the crowning touch -to the scene:—the long, shadowy valley, far below, over which the -crimson dusk was stealing; and, behind them, the delicate structure of -the water-palace, its clear outlines softened by high-climbing vines -and great clumps of feathery tamarind and bamboo. It was the land of -enchanted dreams, and with him were its King and Queen:—this royal man -with the quiet eyes, and the superb woman, crowned with her glory of -hair—the henna-dyed locks that Oman had never seen before. But the hour -passed like a breath. He remembered little of her careless talk; but -he listened with intense interest when she fell into a discussion with -Bhavani. She had been speaking lightly of the beauty of the evening, -when, suddenly, without any reason, she made an abrupt transition to a -matter in which the Rajah was deeply interested. - -“My lord, I have been thinking all day of the matter of Lona, the -woman, and her child; and it is my wish that thou send the child to me. -He shall become one of my household. Because he was taught theft from -his infancy, shall he be punished for it? Let the woman meet what fate -my lord wills. But send the boy to me. Is not this a solution of thy -trouble?” and she smiled upon the King. - -“It is well thought, Zenaide. I will send him to thee. And yet the -woman troubles me more.” - -“And wherefore? Did she not sin knowingly? Disobeyed she not the law?” -answered Zenaide, with a little shrug of indifference that was almost -scorn. - -Bhavani’s expression grew sad. “She sinned, but she knew also that her -suffering could only be saved by sin. She stole first of all for her -child. To her it meant that they should know hunger and nakedness no -more. She had been brought into the world, and, in her turn, bore a -boy. But the world refused her sustenance. Had she no right to take -it, then? Listen, sage, to what I say; and tell me which is right: the -woman, or the law? If a creature starve, and so steals bread from one -that does not starve, shall she receive the ten lashes that the law -provides?” - -Oman bent his head a little. “Could she not work?” he asked. - -“She is a widow. There is but one vocation open to her; and that I have -forbidden in Mandu.” - -“Then is it not the duty of the Lord Rajah to provide for those whom he -has deprived of a means of livelihood?” - -Bhavani flushed, deeply; and Zenaide burst into a ringing laugh. “My -lord, thou art reproved!” she said, looking at Oman for the first time -with interest. - -“Yea, I am reproved, and deservedly. Hermit, thou art wise and just -also. Alas! all my life of training hath never led me to this simple -perception of the truth. But it shall be as thou hast said. Henceforth, -every one that hath been deprived of his means of livelihood through -me, shall by me be provided for. This mother and child shall be -pardoned, and shall live together.” - -“But have I not said that the boy should enter my service?” demanded -Zenaide, suddenly displeased. - -Oman opened his lips to speak, but Bhavani was before him: “This -man, Zenaide, hath shown more wisdom than either thou or I. Let us -acknowledge the truth of his words without any anger or false pride. -Thus it seems good to me.” He turned a gentle look on Oman as he spoke; -but the woman, her face obstinately set, turned away and walked to the -parapet at some little distance, and stood leaning upon it, staring -moodily off upon the darkening world. A faint, half-anxious smile -curled Bhavani’s lips; but Oman, who was far from smiling, felt moved -to say: - -“Lord Rajah, you do me too much honor. My word should not be accepted -at once against that of the beautiful woman. Least of mortals am I.” - -“Most humble, but most wise!” exclaimed Bhavani. Then, after an -instant, he added: “Fruitful hath been my walk to-night. Thou shalt -be my guest at the palace, Oman, and later I will come to thee and we -will talk. For I would know much more of this life of thine.” Then, -with a little gesture that put Oman from him, he went to Zenaide and -stood beside her for a moment, speaking to her; though what he said -and whether she spoke at all, Oman could not tell. Finally Bhavani -drew Oman to him again, and the two moved slowly away, through the -star-spangled dusk, to the palace. - -The next half hour was to Oman a dream. How much of what he felt was -memory and how much revelation, he had no means of knowing; but there -seemed to be no unfamiliar corner in this great building. They entered -the central courtyard, where, as of old, a fire burned by night. Before -them was the open entrance to the carved and pillared audience hall. To -the left, rose the north wing, with its long corridor and tiny entrance -to the triangular zenana courtyard; and, on the right, the south -wing, with its temple room, official suites, and barracks. Behind it, -Oman knew, without any doubt, lay the slave-house. Bhavani, guessing -nothing of what his companion was undergoing, presently left him, with -a slave to whom he had given directions concerning Oman’s lodging and -entertainment. - -It was with a feeling of tremulous awe at his profound sensations that -Oman followed his guide into the north wing, down the broad hall, -and up the old, familiar passage, till they halted before what had -once been the apartments of Ragunáth. The doorway was still heavily -curtained. But within, all was changed. The room that had been an -antechamber, was now cut off from the others of the suite, and was -evidently where Oman was to lodge. The little place was richly -furnished. Around two sides ran a low, broad divan, many-cushioned. -Walls and floor alike were covered with heavy rugs. Round stands, -piles of pillows, a tall incense burner, a huqua, and a little shrine -containing an image of Vishnu, completed the furniture; and the whole -place, which was windowless, was lighted night and day by three -swinging lamps. - -Once in this room, the slave demanded of Oman whether he had any -commands to give; and, receiving a negative, speedily retired. For some -moments Oman stood quite still, gazing around him, his mind filled with -wonder. He was back in the present now, realizing that never in his -life had he thought to see a room like this. He had always regarded his -childhood as the most comfortable and luxurious period of his life; and -now, to him coming out of the long years of hardship and privation when -he had looked for no better provision than a meal of parched grain and -a bed of grass in a cave, this luxury was scarcely to be believed. - -After a little, Oman began to move slowly around the room, feasting -his eyes on every passing phase of richness. And finally, with a -hesitation born of timidity, he ventured to lie down on the divan, -resting his head and shoulders on cushions, and drawing up his knees, -after the universal custom of the Orient. Then, all at once, a feeling -of naturalness came. Luxury was no longer strange. The glowing lights, -the subdued color, the faint aroma of stale incense, induced ghostlike -dreams of what had been, of things to come. His eyes were half closed. -Languor and drowsiness stole on him. It was the most delicious hour he -had ever known. - -After a time, Oman had no idea of how long, a slave entered, carrying -a tray on which was such a meal as the wanderer had not seen since -he left the Vihara of Truth. Without making the least sound, the -white-robed servitor placed one of the low, round stands beside the -divan, laid the meal thereon, and disappeared for a moment, to return -with a silver basin and ewer, and a broad, fringed napkin. Oman held -his hands over the bowl. Perfumed water was poured over them. He dried -them on the cloth, and then, with a look, dismissed the slave. For a -few seconds more he lay quiet, hesitating to eat. Then he turned upon -his elbow and began the lazy meal, not like a hungry man—which he -was—but after the fashion of palace dwellers, who feast five times a -day. When he was satisfied, he lay back again, and the slave reappeared -with sherbet and a jar of wine. Leaving these on the stand, he removed -the remnants of the meal, and departed again, this time for good. - -Oman touched neither the sherbet nor the liquor, but stretched himself -out on the couch, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up -to the dreams that were still haunting him. That he had been in Mandu -before was certain. But how, and where? The tale that Churi had told -upon his death-night, of the slave prince and the young Ranee, seemed -in some way to have taken root in his heart, until their story and his -own dreams of this place had become inextricably intertwined. Why were -they so close to him? What vaguest suspicion was fluttering through his -mind? Above all, how came he to be so familiar with the plan of the -palace? Questions—questions—questions! They crowded upon him till he -could no longer think: till his brain was fairly numb. - -Then, gradually, under the influence of the quiet and solitude, he -fell into that stupor of profound meditation which is natural to the -Hindoo only. His head rested on the cushions. His knees were drawn -up under him. His eyes burned brilliantly under their half-closed -lids. And his mind, once more under control, wandered far, through -unfathomable space. Time passed. The hour grew late, and the busy life -of the palace was stilled. Oman heeded nothing, nor remembered what -surrounded him. He had forgotten Mandu, the day, the woman of gold, the -beauty of Bhavani—everything; and had slipped back into the old freedom -of his days on the Silver Peak. Humankind was infinitely far from his -thoughts. But humankind had not forgotten him. Suddenly the curtain of -his doorway was thrust aside, and Bhavani came quietly into the room. - -The Rajah was not now in royal raiment, but clad from head to heels in -spotless white, the purity of which seemed a fitting frame for his fine -physique and the spiritual dignity of his face. At sight of the figure -on the divan before him, he paused for a few seconds, and then spoke, -gently: - -“Oman Ramasarman, I am come hither—thine host.” - -For a moment, Oman seemed not to have heard. Then, with an effort, he -rose, and stood submissively before the Rajah, evidently waiting for -him to speak again. This Bhavani did. - -“O stranger, I have come to talk with you on the subject of wisdom; for -this is the only time at my disposal for the pursuit of those things -that I have most at heart. And it is for this reason that I break in on -thy revery. Sit there, then; and I will place myself thus, that we may -look into each other’s eyes. Ah—now we may talk together freely.” - -Obedient to the request, which was really a command, Oman seated -himself, his knees crossed under him; and Bhavani took his place on a -pile of cushions three or four feet away. There, for a time, they sat, -looking at each other silently. Bhavani had come into the room, his -brain teeming with thoughts and questions; but he was quick to feel the -chill of Oman’s mood. The wanderer, indeed, was thoroughly disturbed at -Bhavani’s interruption of his meditation; and he showed his displeasure -by a silence that the Rajah found it impossible to penetrate. After -a little while, however, realizing his ungraciousness, Oman forced -himself out of his stolidity, and said, in a muffled voice: - -“My lord hath sought me. What doth he require?” - -For a moment Bhavani looked at the immovable face, and then replied, in -a tone the gentleness of which Oman had never heard equalled: “I have -proffered hospitality to the stranger, and now violate the privilege of -solitude. Let him forgive me!” - -“Do not say it! It is the right of the host at any time to seek the -presence of his guest! What wilt thou of me, O King? Speak, and what I -have is thine.” - -A faint smile shone for a moment in Bhavani’s eyes, but was instantly -succeeded by an expression of deep thoughtfulness: “There is much, -stranger, that thou canst give me, who am a beggar of minds. Thou -saidst that thou wast come out of the hills. What wealth hast brought -with thee from them?” - -“What wealth—of thought?” - -“Yea, of thought.” - -“Ah, much, great Rajah. Much. There, in the vast wilderness, is peace. -I ascended the height toil-worn, weary of the world, outcast of men. -And in the great Silence was a balm for every wound. Peace I obtained, -and strength, and calm. And after a while came Truth also. Creeds and -philosophies of men I had studied in my youth, in temple and Vihara. -But it was there, on the height, that my soul found itself, and gave me -a belief that had not come before.” - -“Tell me of this belief.” - -“It is a system, long and complex.” - -“There is time. The night is young. Tell me, I beg of thee,—Oman.” - -Oman looked at Bhavani thoughtfully, and wondered. For many months -he had preached his creed to men, in the market-place, and it had -seemed good to him, and high, and true. Yet now he was confronted -by a ruler of men:—a King, one who exercised over him a peculiar -fascination. Perhaps he felt a desire to open himself entirely to -this melodious-voiced Rajah; and yet, on the other hand, a new sense -urged him to prudence, to silence, to secrecy in that which intimately -concerned himself. After a little he asked, almost humbly: “Tell me -then, noble One, why thou seekest of me my—faith?” - -“For many years it has been my delight and my desire to learn all -that I can of the many forms of Truth that live in the minds of the -thoughtful. I have also a son, nearing manhood, for whom I have founded -a school here in my palace, which has been taught by very learned men. -This school I overlook myself; and I have been accustomed to search -among every class of men for new thought that can be laid before the -noble youths of my kingdom. For them, and for myself, I ask thee to -expound to me thy creed.” - -“And likewise for Zenaide, the woman of red gold?” demanded Oman, with -a flash in his eye. - -But Bhavani did not wince. “For her also, who is my sacred charge.” - -“Hear, then, O Rajah, the Dharma that came to me in the wilderness: - -“In space are, and from the beginning have been, two elements: one, -that which we call spirit; the other, matter. And spirit, which lives -and feels and does not change, struggles constantly after knowledge. -In the beginning, Spirit entered matter and ruled it, and out of chaos -brought form, and conceived and organized the laws of Nature. But, -having entered matter, Spirit found itself encumbered and bound about -by the inert substance that is foreign to it; and it learned also that -its great Unity had been broken into various particles, each of which -was now enclosed in a form. And thereupon perceiving itself caught by -the encumbering mass, it set itself to dominate matter, and so to rule -it that in time the fetters should disappear. But this was, and still -is, difficult. Matter is subject to change and to decay. Moreover, it -is the exact opposite of that which has taken possession of it. And -the spirit in the clay finds itself ever and again freed and ever and -again seized anew and enclosed in another form, until, after infinite -experience, certain units of spirit found themselves actually dominant -over the evil element, and free to pursue their natural vocation of -perfect power and stainless happiness. And these, uniting together to -give what aid they might to their still unconquering brethren, are the -only God: that which we should all pray to for strength. - -“We, Bhavani, are spirits still encompassed by matter; and we struggle -from life to life, from form to form, still hoping, still aspiring, -still achieving, still advancing a little along the road to victory -over the evil element, till, in the end, we shall come into a state of -perfect dominion over our enemy. - -“This is the Dharma that I have found in the wilderness.” - -“And it is good. Yes, it is good. Yet thy creed is pitiless, O sage. -Tell me: what of those that yield their lives to matter, that give -themselves up wholly to the evil influence? Is there no punishment for -them?” - -“Those that travel backward along their road must, with double pain and -suffering, retrace their steps. That is their punishment.” - -“But there is no Kutashala Máli—no place of everlasting punishment?” - -“How can there be? Spirit is good. Spirit cannot die. And the only -power in matter is its inertia. Who is there to decree such a place as -that?” - -“Listen, Oman, while I tell thee the story of two that I knew and loved -in my childhood, who sinned together past forgiveness. Thou shalt tell -me if they yet strive toward happiness; whether they do not still walk, -helpless and despairing, along the Sinners’ Road. For of such sin as -theirs, thou surely canst know naught. - -“My father had a wife, the fairest and the youngest in his zenana, -brought from Dhár, but of Persian blood, so that her skin was pale, -like the lotos petal. She was called Ahalya; and every one that saw -her, loved her. She had been a bride for two years when my father -brought hither, out of the north, a noble captive of the invading -race:—by name, Fidá el-Asra. And my father favored him greatly, and -came in time to value him above all his other slaves. And at last he -was made my master, my guardian in my father’s absence. By some means -that I do not know, this slave once saw Ahalya, the lady of my father’s -heart; and, like all men, he loved her. Then, because he was young and -a captive, she loved him also, through pity. And here he dwelt, for -many months, deceiving the King who had so trusted him. More than this, -Ahalya, like all women, weak, also gave herself up to wickedness. Thus -these two loved until they sinned themselves even unto death. For they -died together, at last, by drowning in the Narmáda stream, after the -slave had murdered one of my father’s counsellors, who, I believe, died -in defending the honor of his King. Now tell me, Oman, if thou canst, -what these two found waiting for them beyond the river of death?” - -“They found,” answered Oman, slowly and distinctly, “a life of the -deepest woe, a constant suffering, a shame that they can never escape. -For those two, unlawfully joined in one life, are, in the next, -inseparably united. Their two miserable souls inhabit but one body, -in which they have struggled vainly for release. And,” here Oman rose -and lifted his face, straining upward as if the words he spoke were -received from some invisible source, “and thus they shall exist till -they have drunk the cup of retribution to the very dregs. But, in the -end, they shall escape their bondage. In time they will complete the -expiation and know the blessed end:—freedom from travail and from woe. -For they will regain their right to move forward alone, on the road to -the Great Release.” - -With the last words, he sank back upon the divan, and a silence -followed. Bhavani sat amazed at the absolute conviction with which -this man had spoken; and he was again seized with strange wonders and -suspicions concerning the stranger’s identity. After a long pause the -Rajah, groping for his words, asked, hoarsely: - -“Wilt thou remain here in my kingdom and in my palace, master, and lay -the foundation of thy faith in the heart of my son?” - -For answer, Oman solemnly bowed his head. He knew it to be written that -he should remain in Mandu. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - THE ANCIENT FLAME - - -So Oman took up his abode in the palace; nor were the circumstances -of his settling there very surprising to himself. From the first it -had seemed as if, in the natural course of things, this should become -his home; and the new duties and new habits of life were acquired -mechanically. His intuition of the link that bound him to the past, -however, though at times it was strong on him, proved evanescent; so -that there were weeks when he lived wholly in the passing hour, without -any memories of bygone days. But he knew that Fate had been kind to -him. He was wrapped in impenetrable serenity: the outcome, the reward, -of his years of solitude; and he felt that no mischance could disturb -this again. - -On the first morning after his arrival, the Rajah himself introduced -him to the palace school, held in that room which, in the old Rajah’s -day, had been a theatre:—the place where the slave Fidá had first -looked upon poppy-crowned Ahalya. Whatever its former glories, this -room, on the morning that Oman first beheld it, presented a pleasanter -picture. Save for a great rug upon the floor, and the teacher’s cushion -on a daïs at one end of the room, the place was quite unfurnished. On -the floor sat an orderly company of young men, between the ages of -fifteen and twenty: all of them clad in white, with scarlet sashes -around their waists, and red shoes on their otherwise bare feet. These -youths were engaged in a variety of occupations: some of them studying -manuscripts of various kinds, many simply sitting in meditation, -still others indulging, rather surreptitiously, in games. Among them, -without any distinction as to dress or position, was Bhavani’s son, -Viradha, the heir of Mandu: a pleasant-faced youth, but not remarkable -for any special wit or wisdom; for he had inherited the disposition -of his grandfather, and was fonder of the chase and the table than of -reflection on the doctrine of atoms[9] or the working of the primordial -soul. - - [9] The foundation of the Nyaya system, originated by Kanada. - -Up to to-day, the palace school had been conducted on a very irregular -plan, Bhavani bringing various men of wisdom or holiness to lecture -one or two days a week, the rest of the time being occupied with -indiscriminate reading from philosophic or poetical manuscripts. -On this day, as soon as the youths had assembled, Bhavani and Oman -made their appearance together. The Rajah offered a few words of -introduction and explanation: setting forth the fact that at last they -were to have a permanent master, who would reduce their hours of study -to some sort of system and order. During his speech, every eye in the -room was fixed upon Oman’s tall, gaunt figure, clad in white garments, -his serene face, with its deep-set eyes, and his broad, lined brow, on -each side of which fell masses of thick, black hair. At the end of the -introduction Oman came forward a little and the young men advanced to -him, and, one by one, kissed his hand. Then they returned, expectantly, -to their places; and Bhavani, able to spare no more time from matters -of state, hurried away, leaving Oman to his new task. - -It was the most difficult morning that Oman had ever spent. He had had -no preparation for his situation, no time to arrange a course of work. -Hitherto he had preached in small towns, to mere handfuls of uneducated -men and women. Now he stood before a critical assembly of young -noblemen, all of whom had had considerable instruction in abstract -thinking and reasoning: far more, no doubt, than he himself had ever -known. That he impressed them all, immediately, as a man of dignity and -wisdom, of wide knowledge of men and high purity of mind, was again -probably due to his years of miracle-working solitude. - -To his own keen satisfaction, Oman felt that he had begun well with -his school; and he determined, in his heart, that the end should be -better still. For a month or more, then, he was invisible to every one -save his pupils. He found that a full and detailed exposition of his -creed to thinking and sometimes sceptical men, demanded a new labor of -thought, a new working out of little things that had hitherto been mere -suggestions in his own mind; the rejection of some ideas that proved -themselves impossible; and the admission of others that he had not -hitherto acknowledged. This work, while difficult, gave him the keenest -delight; for the breadth and fulness of his logic was coming home to -him; and he perceived that this creation of his brain was no puny -shadow, but a thing finely formed, capable of proper development. He, -the seeker after Truth, had found it; and from the heights was bringing -it to men. It was its own greatest reward. - -At the end of six weeks, his labors began to be less exacting. He had -reduced his own thinking to a system; and he now began to introduce -other studies than philosophy into this school, where arithmetic of -the simplest kind, and writing in any living language, were considered -not as necessaries but as arts. Oman found time now to see something -of the palace and of its Rajah, who eagerly sought his society. A few -days wrought great changes in his quiet existence; and presently an -incident, entirely unexpected, brought him a revelation which, for some -time to come, eclipsed every other interest in his mind. - -During the six weeks of close work, the circumstances attendant on his -first meeting with Bhavani had slipped from Oman’s mind. He no longer -thought of the scene by the parapet behind the water-palace, or of -Zenaide, the woman with wonderful hair. But now, in mid-May, she was -recalled to him. One noon, as he sat in his room meditating through the -hot hours, a slave-boy broke in upon him and delivered to him a message -to the effect that the lady Zenaide desired the presence of Oman the -sage, that she might hear the creed he taught. - -Oman, taken by surprise, had an impulse to refuse the request. A -moment’s reflection, however, changed his mind. She had asked for -his creed. Believing as he did, he had no right to refuse her the -knowledge. Besides, was she not under the special protection of -Bhavani? Bhavani was his patron, nay, his friend. Whom Bhavani loved, -Oman would not deny. So he sent an answer by the little slave that he -would come that day; and the child departed, leaving him in chaos. - -Oman spent the next two hours in the greatest confusion of mind. Never -in his life had he been brought into contact with such a woman as he -knew this one to be:—such a woman as the great Indian romances love to -concern themselves with. He thought of the incident of the Buddha’s -entertainment by the woman of Vesali, the beloved of Ajuta-Satra, and -of her conversion to the faith. Had the Sakyamuni found danger in her -presence? Was her hair of golden red? And then, suddenly, Oman started -up, resolutely turning his mind to other things. Hurriedly he bathed -and clothed himself in a fresh gown of white linen, girt himself with -a broad, yellow sash, and wound a white turban around his head. Then, -without pause, he set out for the water-palace. - -The afternoon was late, and the shadows lay long and golden across the -road. Full summer was already on the land, and Mandu was a riot of -verdure. Oman’s mood responded easily to the scene. Under the spell of -the surrounding beauty, his thoughts grew lighter, till, when he paused -before the open doors of the waterpalace, he no longer looked like an -ascetic. The sombre fires in his eyes had brightened, and his face was -softened with a smile. - -In the curtained doorway stood a tall slave, clad in rich livery, who -addressed Oman with an air of profound respect, and at once made way -for him to pass within. Oman found himself following the slave across -a broad, square hall, in the centre of which was a marble tank filled -with clear water; and thence they proceeded to the end of a short -corridor, where, before another curtained doorway, Oman was left alone. - -After a moment’s hesitation he lifted the curtain, and crossed the -threshold. He was facing a long, narrow room, stone-paved, lighted -from the top, the walls hung with embroidered silks of delicate hues. -There was an air of unusual lightness and airiness about the whole -place; and Oman’s eyes wandered for some seconds before he perceived -that, at the far end of the room, in front of a long, amber-colored -divan, half hidden by a screen, stood Zenaide. Oman uttered a short -exclamation, and started forward, observing, as he approached her, -that there was no smile on her lips. His eyes estimated her again; and -they found much that was new. She was clad to-day in a long garment of -silvery green, that showed her more slender than he had thought. She -was also paler. Her hair was woven into a crown upon her head, but was -without ornament; and in her dark eyes there was no expression of the -voluptuary. Oman found himself newly puzzled as he seated himself, at -her bidding, on the divan, while she sank upon a low pile of cushions -on the floor. They had not yet spoken when a slave entered, with a -tray of sherbets and sweetmeats which Oman refused, and Zenaide, not -pressing him, herself waved away. When they were alone again, she rose, -impulsively, ran down the room, and lowered a double hanging before -the door. Then she turned, slowly, facing Oman, who was watching her. -For some moments she neither advanced nor spoke. Oman perceived that -she was in a state of repressed agitation, for her fingers twined and -intertwined, and her clinging garments betrayed a nervous quivering of -her body. It seemed as if it were impossible for her to speak; yet, as -Oman did not help her, she had, perforce, to make a beginning. She had -examined him minutely, face and figure, before she exclaimed, abruptly: - -“Art thou indeed as learned as they tell me, O sage?” - -Oman’s expression changed. “Not in thy lore,” he answered. - -“My lore? And what is that?” - -“Art thou not a woman? Thy lore is love.” - -“Ah!” The expression escaped involuntarily. It was a betrayal. - -“Ah!” echoed Oman. “It was for that you sent for me! Know, then, that I -am not a faquir, not a mag—” - -“No, no!” Reading the scorn in his tone, she came forward swiftly -and sank down in the cushions at his feet. “Think not that of me. I -know something of thy creed. Bhavani has expounded it to me. I have -considered it, carefully. But it is very pitiless. Thinkest thou not it -is pitiless to the weak? Wouldst thou leave no sweetness in life?” Her -eyes lifted themselves to him searchingly, and he felt the spell of her -magnetism. - -Shaking himself free from the impression, he looked down upon her with -a quizzical calmness that disconcerted her. “What wouldst thou of me, -Zenaide?” he asked. - -Again, overcome by her nervousness, she rose and began to pace up and -down before him. “Nothing.—Nothing,” she answered; but her words did -not indicate a pause. For a moment or two she walked, but finally faced -him, frankly. “Is love—true love—so ignoble, then?” - -Oman, taken aback, did not immediately answer. Then, many memories -overcoming him, he cried out painfully: “Unless it be lawful, yes. -Surely yes!” - -“Lawful! Love hath no law save itself.” - -Oman’s lip curled. “Doubtless thou knowest more of it than I. Wherein -am I to help thee? Hast thou left this love of thine? Return, then, to -the land where he dwells.” - -Zenaide listened, and a far-away look came into her eyes. She was -standing now with her back against a stone pillar, and, as she began to -speak, Oman felt himself gradually fascinated by the perfection of her -beauty and by the abandon of her manner, which, in the beginning, had -been held in restraint, but grew more and more impassioned as, carried -out of herself by her own emotion, she forgot everything but her theme. - -“The land of my love—lies here, Oman. I came out of the east, -seeking love, journeying through broad countries. To many I brought -happiness, but I found it never for myself. Then came I to Mandu. And -here, in a breath, I knew that it awaited me. My soul was lighted -as by a torch; and I am still consumed by its increasing flame. -I love. And him I love rejects me. I, the priestess of love, am -unloved! Am I so ugly?—so old?—so young?—so ignorant? Am I surpassed -by another? I, Zenaide, consumed with fire and tears, pour out all -my wealth on him, and he knows it not. Daily he looks on my face, -hears my voice, reads mine eyes, and still I am not known. Oh, my -beloved—adorable—transcendent—Bhavani—” - -She stopped short. Her passion had carried her beyond herself. She had -more than betrayed, she had proclaimed, her secret. But now, suddenly -brought back to consequences, all her force died, and she stood -trembling, fearful, before Oman, whose face was stern and angry. There -was silence for a long, pulsating moment, while Zenaide realized that -the teacher of men had become her judge. Oman, indeed, felt his anger -growing within him, and presently gave it voice: - -“Hast thou dared to defile the purest of men with thy love? Hast -thou known him, lived near him for more than two years, seen all the -strength of his white soul, and still dreamed he could so dishonor -himself and thee? Shame to thee! Thou hast, moreover, sullied him in -the eyes of his people; for many say what is false, that he yielded -long ago to thine eyes and thy red-dyed hair. He has housed thee like a -queen. He has paid thee greater honor than if, indeed, he loved thee. -Shame, then, woman, for thy thoughts! Shame to thee!—What—thou weepest!” - -For Zenaide, sinking slowly to her knees, bent her head upon her hands, -and Oman saw two or three bright tears run through her fingers and fall -to the floor. Her frame was shaken and convulsed with ill-restrained -sobs. After gazing at her for a moment, Oman, unable to judge of the -sincerity of her pose, went on more quietly: - -“Thou hast confessed to love the ruler of his people, a man standing in -the eyes of men for all that is upright—more than upright. And now thou -callest upon me, his servant, a lover of truth, to condone thy sin. How -couldst thou think thus of me?” - -“No—no! Listen! Not to condone—” she lifted her head, and he perceived -that her face was stained and distorted with real grief. “Not to -condone. I sent for thee because, despairing—” she gave a little -convulsive sob—“despairing of bringing his love to me, I long to cure -myself of the malady. Thou art wise. I wish to learn wisdom of thee. -Thou art good. So I also would be. Bha—Bhavani has sought to teach me -wisdom, to teach me strength. But I—could never learn but love from -him. O stern—O wise one—cast me not away! Help me, and I will honor -thee all my days!” - -Her pleading was eloquent because it was sincere. Her voice was not -smooth. The words were forced out like sobs; and in them Oman read -the struggle she had endured before she sent for him. Her abandon -showed this, indeed; for, had he not been her final hope, she would -never have laid her soul bare before him in her stress. And seeing all -these things, his anger was softened, and he was moved to some sort -of feeling, less pity than sympathy. Kneeling beside her as she still -crouched upon the floor, he soothed her a little, and raised her up, -and led her, unresisting, to the divan, where he caused her to sit -down. Then, himself taking her former place upon the cushions, he began -to talk. His voice was low and smooth, and flowed along monotonously. -At first he cared not so much what he said, as that his manner should -quiet her. In this he succeeded. And when he saw her, forgetful of -her tears, sit up and lean forward, listening to him, he took up a -text on which he had never spoken before—on which he had scarcely -permitted himself to meditate, yet concerning which all knowledge -seemed to be stored away in his heart and brain. It was the ceaseless, -rebellious yearning of woman for man, of man for woman: that insistent, -unreasoning desire that has caused chaos in the world. Of himself and -his own abnormal struggles, he did not speak. But it was from them that -he drew his words:—the words that Zenaide knew to be expressive of -universal truth. For some time Oman talked broadly on this theme; and -then, waiving generalities, he continued: - -“And it is thus that you have suffered in your soul, desiring for a -companion the noblest of men. But, because you would match your heart -with such as him, so you must become his equal, worthy of him. Let -his own nobility illumine you. It is unlawful, in the light of the -higher law, that you two should love. Show yourself his peer, then, in -quenching this desire, and, dwelling near his brain, seek not to unlock -the chamber of his heart. Let it not be said that, through you, his -high nature has been weakened and defiled. - -“Nay—speak not yet. I see it in your eyes—how cold my words are to you; -how hard. It is true that I feel within me no fire burning. I know -little of that restless pain. But, hearing many speak of it, I believe -in it; and yet, above, see plainly the great Dharma shining. Receive, -then, the truth. Be not defeated in your struggle. Go your way knowing -that the blessing of Brahma is upon you for your keeping of the law.” - -“But, in the end, what reward shall there be for this, my sacrifice? -What in the wide world could repay me for the delight of one hour—of -one moment, in the strength of his arms?” - -“The reward is great:—greater, indeed, than any that receive it not can -fathom. It comes in the earthly Nirvâna, the high, conscious strength, -the calm, the tranquillity, that permeates the soul as water permeates -and renews a parched and dying plant. With this peace comes the death -of yearning and desire. The pursuits of man and the objects of his -struggles—love, power, wealth, fame—these are little to those that -feel their futility. And I assert this not as the Dharma, nor as what -has been told me; but I speak of what I know. For, Zenaide, that same -reward is mine. Many years I labored for it, fighting such battles -as you could scarcely understand. But in the end it came;—the great -Relief; and, knowing that at last I should be safe to dwell among men, -I returned to them, and shall remain among them till my death. The -reward is always with me. It cannot leave me now.” - -“But—” Zenaide sat studying him, his seamed face, his deep-set eyes, -his black hair, shaded here and there with a thread of white; and when -she spoke, there was a pathetic childishness in her tone: “But thou art -old. Thou hast seen life. Desire dies out of the hearts of the aged.” - -Oman shook his head. “I am not an old man. I was not twenty years old -when I went up into the mountains. I dwelt there for many years; but -still I am not more than five and thirty. I am younger than Bhavani,” -he added, thoughtfully. - -To this the woman made no reply. Oman had expended all his comfort; and -now he sat waiting for her to speak again. She remained quiet, however, -her chin resting on her clasped hands, her elbows on her knees, her -face thrust a little forward. Her brow was contracted, and she seemed -to be thinking, deeply. Her cheeks bore the marks of tears. Her hair -and dress were disarranged. But she was oblivious of her appearance. -Oman sat studying her, and did not realize how long the silence had -lasted when, without changing her attitude, she said slowly: - -“It is a creed for men, only for men, that you preach, O sage. It is -cold. It is hard. It is relentless. What need have I of tranquillity -and calm? I am a woman of red blood. Preach you to me resistance of -the emotions? Think you that bloodlessness, quietude, loneliness seem -beautiful to me?—Ah, yes—it is true! It is true! He is like that, and -I wish to be like him. I will be like him, Oman Ramasarman! I will, I -will—dost hear? I will!” - -“What is it that thou wilt, Zenaide?” - -Oman and the woman sprang to their feet, as Bhavani walked quietly into -the room. - -“My lord!” cried Zenaide, faintly; and Oman went hastily forward, with -an irrelevant remark which Bhavani answered, wondering. While this was -in progress, Zenaide’s hands were busy with her hair, with her face, -with her dress; and presently she approached, mistress of herself -again, so quiet, so self-contained, that Oman could only marvel at her -power. - -Bhavani did not stay long, nor would he permit Oman to depart before -him, however much Zenaide wished it. He seated himself beside the -woman, and talked with her about one or two personal matters; while -Oman, standing apart, covertly watched the two. He tried hard to -discover in Zenaide some sign of the feeling she had so lately -displayed. But, search as he would, he could find nothing in her -bearing that remotely suggested her true state. If she was always thus -with Bhavani, there was surely little to fear. From her the hermit’s -eyes moved to the Rajah. He was talking as he would have talked to a -man whose friendship he valued. Seeing them both thus, Oman took heart. -Surely an unlawful emotion could not be very strong in either heart. - -It was after sunset when Bhavani rose to go; and he and Oman took leave -together, Zenaide begging Oman, in an undertone, to come again to -her that she might talk with him further. Oman promised readily; and -then, arm in arm, he and the Rajah set out into the starry half-light. -As they left the water-palace behind them, there fell on both an -unexpected silence:—such a silence as, coming from the mind and will -of one, is not to be broken by his companion. It settled over Oman -oppressively; for where Bhavani was concerned, he was quick to feel the -slightest change in mood. Encompassed by uneasiness, they moved on in -the evening light, and Oman perceived that Bhavani’s steps lagged. It -was as if he loitered to get courage to speak. Oman had a sense that -some revelation was pending; but instinct told him that he might not -question, might not make the slightest advance toward confidence. They -proceeded till they were within a few yards of the palace, and Oman -began to think his feeling a mistake, when suddenly Bhavani halted, -and, turning to his companion till, even in the dim light, Oman could -see how drawn and pale was his face, he said, in a muffled voice: - -“Zenaide sent for thee to-day?” - -“Yes.” - -“And wherefore? Wherefore? What did she want of thee?” - -For the shadow of an instant Oman hesitated. Then he answered, quietly: -“She had heard that I taught a new creed. She desired to hear it.” - -“Is that all?” The words shot from Bhavani’s lips. - -“That is all,” was the tranquil rejoinder. - -Bhavani found no reply to this, yet he did not move on. Oman stood -waiting, with fear in his heart. He heard Bhavani say, in a voice that -was monotonous with repression: “She had been weeping. I could see it. -She had wept.” Then, all at once, he flung both arms over his head, -and cried out, in a voice deep with long-endured anguish: “How long, -O Brahma! How long? My strength fails me at last. I can endure it no -more. I shall fall—I shall fall!” - -“Wherefore?” murmured Oman, at his shoulder. - -“Can you not see? Do you not perceive?” whispered Bhavani, hoarsely. “I -love her. I love her, Oman. I love Zenaide.” - -Then Oman began to laugh. He laughed till Bhavani, seizing him by the -shoulder, shook him like a rat, crying to him the while to speak. And -Oman obeyed him, saying, in a tone of bitter mockery: “Thou lovest her, -Bhavani, thou, Rajah of Mandu! Thou lovest her whose heart has been -given in turn to half a hundred; who loves thee to-day for thy gold, -who will love me to-morrow for my creed: _Thou_, son of Rajahs, -stoop to _such_?” And again he laughed. - -Bhavani straightened up, and his face grew hard and set. “Ah, thou -speakest well. It is folly indeed to talk to thee of love. But have no -fear. I am Bhavani, a prince, the son of princes. I have not stooped, -nor shall I.” - -With that speech his expression was not pleasant to look upon. But -Oman felt a sudden relief. He had won a battle in behalf of the law. -Yet, a few moments later, as he shut himself into his room, he felt a -new confusion and a new bitterness in his heart; and he repeated over -and over to himself these words: “And these—and these—the greatest -and the best, know still the struggle, still faint before it, still -call on high for the Reason that never comes. Was it so wonderful that -I—we—failed?” - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - THE RIVER TEMPLE - - -The events of that afternoon, which formed the unpremeditated climax of -two years of restraint on the part of both man and woman, threatened -consequences that did not actually come. For some time after Oman’s -bitter reproach, Bhavani did not go at all to the water-palace. And -Mandu wondered and rejoiced. But to Zenaide, these weeks were the most -terrible she had ever known. It was probably Oman who kept her from -suicide; for, little as Oman could understand her or her passion, she -seemed to cling to him, and to him only, in her stress. He felt himself -both cowardly and hypocritical when she moaned to him of Bhavani’s -sudden hatred of her; but he nevertheless held to his tenets as her one -possible safeguard. At times, indeed, when he could see clearly, he -felt that these two creatures had been given into his hands; that it -was for him to keep them both from a relationship which would, in the -end, shatter them morally and mentally. With Zenaide he dealt tenderly, -for she showed herself to him in lights of unselfishness unsuspected by -any one else. But he never concealed from her the fact that he would -himself exert all his power to keep her true feelings from becoming -known to the Rajah. And the woman after a time accepted, miserably, his -view, and acquiesced in all that he told her about the necessity of -constant struggle, constant watchfulness, constant self-restraint. - -After some weeks it came about that Bhavani recovered his strength and -went again to the water-palace, where, by degrees, the old relations -were resumed. For this was possible, in that neither of the two -entertained any suspicion of the other’s feeling. In these new days -Oman was, by common desire, much with them. And nothing, probably, -could have made the lonely creature happier than this. With these two -people he found entire satisfaction. The two sides of his nature got -sustenance; and he experienced for the first time the delights of true -companionship:—a full and complete companionship, such as few normal -people have the happiness to find. From the first it was plain that -there was little danger of betrayal between the man and the woman. Oman -watched their self-possession, wondering. Zenaide was no less steady, -no less impenetrable, than the Rajah. Not a look, not a gesture, not -a tone, ever conveyed to Bhavani her feeling for him. And Oman began -to believe that she was really conquering her nature. The three spent -many hours in the discussion of problems political, judicial, or -philosophical; and, their minds being in harmony each with the others, -these periods became the fullest in their lives. - -To Oman, especially, had come the deep joy of unbreakable tranquillity. -His life was flowing smoothly, in chosen ways. He had the assurance -that his living was not in vain; and he knew also that he had succeeded -in conquering himself. Bhavani, loving and honoring him, would have -loaded him with gorgeousness. But Oman’s sense of fitness did not -desert him. He had no desire to go unkempt; but he accepted only the -state that a lower official of the royal house was entitled to hold. -Gifts of precious metals or gems he refused. But, early in his coming -to Mandu, he took the Asra ruby from its concealing box, and caused it -to be set in a thin, golden chain which, henceforth, he wore about his -neck; till it became known to all the plateau as his badge. The story -of how it had come to him—from a mendicant who had died in his cave—he -told, readily enough, to Bhavani. But anything further, the mendicant’s -name, or the strange powers possessed by the stone, he kept to himself. -The matter of reawakened memory, indeed, had come, little by little, -to be a constant part of the secret understanding that was always with -him. He knew that it had been decreed that he should learn something of -the vast scheme of life and progress; but he knew also that this inner -knowledge must not be taught to men. - -Months passed quietly away. Summer came, with furious rains; and then -the hot autumn, when the nights were cooled by winds from the hills. -The late monsoon followed, and the fields were green as with spring. -Mountain torrents plunged from the heights and over the plain to join -the turbulent Narmáda stream. And winter was there again:—the mild, -sunny winter of the upper Dekkhan, the winter of flowers, the winter -of Eden. Great riches brought these seasons to the man who had come, a -year before, out of the hills to Mandu. He was known now to every soul -in the plateau; and he viewed his adopted land with enchanted eyes. -He knew places and parts of Mandu that were not known to men born on -its soil. Often he walked alone through the still palace, living amid -scenes of the long past, seeing in silent rooms faces of those long -since consigned to crematory flames. There were days when memory was -on him overpoweringly: when Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth walked abroad -through the corridors and assembly halls; when the Ranee Ahalya, -attended by Neila, sat at her embroidery in the tiny room, dreaming -of him who was to come to her by night; when Fidá, the slave, watched -near the zenana door, waiting, with trembling limbs, for the hour when -he might seek his love. These times of vision laid hold of Oman like -dreams that are not to be shaken off. But he pursued his way quietly, -in the face of the double life decreed for him by his distorted Fates. - -The winter passed. Spring stole upon the land, and grew, and proclaimed -herself again, and got joyous welcome from all the earth. And it was -only now, when he had been a year in Mandu, that Oman learned of a -strange custom of the new rule. Down upon the shore of the Narmáda, -five miles west of Mandu, at the spot where, thirty-three years -before, the bodies of the Ranee Ahalya and Fidá had been washed ashore -close locked in each other’s arms, there had been raised a little -stone temple, whither, once in two years, on the anniversary of the -death, the Rajah of Mandu, his officers, and the Brahmans repaired to -serve the high gods for the souls of the sinful twain. This custom, -inaugurated during the regency of Manava, had been continued through -his reign by Bhavani, in whom the act was the one sign of countenance -granted toward any one guilty of the degrading sin. The alternating -anniversaries of the quadruple death were given to mourning services -at the magnificent tomb of Rai-Khizar in the palace temple. And the -incongruity of the two acts was much whispered about, but never -mentioned before the Rajah. - -It was the year of the river pageant, for which preparations were begun -a week or more before the fourth of April. On the morning of that day, -the whole palace was astir by dawn; and, in the early light, a large -company set out on foot to descend from the plateau; for horses could -only await them in the plain, below. Oman found that the descent was -easy enough, for, directly behind the palace, where the slope was less -steep than anywhere else, a long flight of steps had been cut in the -rock, and the plain could be reached thereby in less than half an hour. -Oman and Bhavani started first and were on level ground in advance of -the rest of the party. There, at the base of the plateau, they found -horses and donkeys assembled, all yellow-caparisoned, and wearing high -funeral plumes in their crests. Presently there was a general mounting: -priests, lords, and officials, according to their rank, ranged two and -two on their steeds; and after them, on foot, a number of villagers -and country-folk, for whom the day was a holiday. In the first hour of -sunrise the cavalcade was set in motion and began to wind across the -plain to the river bank:—a long, slow-moving line of pinkish yellow, -that saddest of Indian colors. - -To Oman, the sensation of riding was novel enough, and far from -unpleasant. Everything—the sweet, early morning air, the silvery -mist on the plain, the rushing river-song, the rolling hills in the -distance, and the grave-eyed, silent man beside him, all worked -themselves into his mood, deepening the impression of the hour. By nine -o’clock the little temple was in sight. When it first appeared, a dim, -bluish blot in the flat distance, the heart of Oman rose within him. -His face grew very white. On his breast the Asra ruby burned, and the -light of it, shining blood-red in the sunlight, or the fact that he -had gazed too long at the temple, or perhaps some still more natural -cause, made him suddenly dizzy and faint. In the whirl of his feeling, -he looked toward Bhavani beside him. The Rajah sat stiffly in his -saddle, his yellow turban throwing into pale relief his stern, set face -and deeply glowing eyes. He gazed unwinkingly forward, and Oman’s look -followed his. - -Directly in front of them it lay now,—a small, square building of -grayish white stone cut in heavy blocks. The top of the structure -was flat and square, but from the middle of it rose a conical, -pagoda-like dome, also of stone:—to the Indian eye a sufficiently -symmetrical finish to the whole. The entire building was ornamented -with innumerable bas-reliefs, flutings, and carvings, crude enough in -themselves, but, taken in the mass, giving an effect of considerable -richness. Neither wing, veranda, nor jut marred the straight lines -of the side walls; and for this, the temple was probably unique in -the jumbling architecture of its period. As it stood here, silent, -deserted, on the edge of the wild-rushing stream, surrounded by shadowy -plain and backed by high-reaching hills, it gave an impression of -loneliness that no momentary spectacle of trooping horses and men could -shake off. - -It was some time before ten o’clock when the procession halted and -dismounted at its destination. There was a pause, while the priests -opened the long-locked doors and kindled a fire inside, before the -small, stone image of the god. Then, Bhavani leading the way, with Oman -close behind him, the throng passed into the stone-lined chamber. Oman -entered with closed eyes. There was an oppression on him that would not -be shaken off. He shook and shivered in the chill of the little place. -When he finally looked about him, the chant of prayers had begun, and -he was surrounded by silent, motionless men. There were no windows, -and little light entered through the doorway, which was occupied by -villagers who strove to hear something of the service. The audience, -therefore, could see only by means of the flickering firelight. -Everything—roof, walls, floor, and the image of the god, were of the -same grayish-white stone, polished, but not carved. In the centre of -the floor, however, close to where Oman stood, was the marble tomb that -had been built over the ashes of the two whom they came to mourn. The -whole of this sarcophagus was covered with inscriptions and carvings -gracefully arranged. And this was all that the temple held. A single -glance was enough to take it in. Oman saw it so; and then he stood -listening dully to the meaningless words of the chant, while the ruby -burned upon his breast, and his brain throbbed with the pain of memory. - -When the prayers were finished, every one left the temple and went out -into the open, where a meal was to be served. But, while priests and -people ate, in separate groups, Oman and Bhavani, who were of one mind, -returned to the building, and silently reëntered it. Advancing to the -sarcophagus, they paused, one on either side of it, Oman resting both -hands on the chilly marble. The eyes of the two met, and each found -in the other’s look what lay in his own:—bitterness and sadness. When -they had stood there for a long time, each wrapped in his own thoughts, -Bhavani murmured, quietly, as if to himself: - -“I loved them—both. Ahalya, thou beautiful one,—lying here,—what hath -been thy Fate in death?” - -The last words were barely audible; for it required courage to -break the silence of that room. The stillness of it seemed almost -supernatural. It was scarcely broken by the faint fluttering of a -winged creature that skimmed in through the half-open doorway. Oman -looked up and perceived a slender, gray bird, of peculiar shape, -hovering under the roof above his head. It was his companion, he knew -at once. Bhavani seemed not to have noticed the intrusion; and Oman did -not mention it. But the scene was suddenly complete for him. He felt -comforted. And he realized also that here, some day, he should himself -yield up his imprisoned souls, and in this silent place enter upon his -well-earned rest. Looking into Bhavani’s eyes, he said, quietly: - -“Lord Rajah, let thy father’s ashes be some day laid within this room. -Many years have passed since these two committed their sin against -him. To their troubled souls it would be forgiveness should he, whom -they so wronged in life, come to them in death, and lie beside them, -peacefully.” - -So gently did Oman say this, and with such conviction, that Bhavani -could not be shocked by the idea. After a long, thoughtful silence, he -only observed: “Thinkest thou so, indeed?” And then he relapsed again -into thought. Shortly afterward, without further speech between them, -they passed out of the tomb, closing the door behind them. - -A little later the company rode away from the lonely place, their -faces turned toward Mandu. It was a quieter journey than that of the -morning; for the service in the temple-tomb had not failed to make its -impression on the most careless. Oman and Bhavani were again side by -side, still silent and thoughtful, gazing into the cloudy east. When at -last they left the river and struck across the plain, Bhavani, leaning -toward his companion, said, in a muffled voice: - -“Thou hast spoken of peace to the twain were my father laid beside them -there by the river. Why, rather, should not their ashes be carried up -into Mandu, and placed in the palace temple, where their Rajah lies?” - -Oman hesitated for a moment, stroking his horse’s mane. Then he -answered, dreamily: “That is their place there, by the river. It is -a peaceful sleep. They would not rest well near the palace of their -treachery.” - -Bhavani bowed his head, and seemed as if about to reply; but he closed -his lips again without having uttered any word. - -Thus ended Oman’s first visit to the tomb: an incident that brought -much into his life. It proved the beginning of intangible things that -carried changes in their train. There was at first a new relaxation of -mind; for it seemed as if some final touch had been put upon his own -existence. Less than ten miles away was his own resting-place, waiting -his coming. He knew this intuitively; and it seemed to him that, -however long he should still live, there could be no further pilgrimage -for him. His life at Mandu was not for a mere Vassa season. He had -attained his Arahatship; and need not any longer dread the privation -months each year. - -During the following summer Oman went twice, alone, to the tomb; each -time spending the night there and returning, next day, on foot. What he -did in those times, or why he went, no one knew. But he had been given -a key to the temple doors, and men might see, if they wished, that he -carried it always in his girdle. Zenaide once ventured to ask him of -the purpose of his journeys, and he smiled, and answered her: - -“I go there to pray to the great Brahma for two erring souls.” - -“The souls of the Ranee and the slave who were drowned together?” - -Oman bent his head. - -“And dost thou not think, O Oman, that for such sinful ones there must -be hundreds of reincarnations to expiate their crimes?” - -“Was there happiness enough in their sin to repay a thousand years of -suffering?” he asked, bitterly. “Nay, woman, I tell thee that thirty -years of sorrow and struggle hath more than paid—more than paid! There -is a strict justice over all things. The Divine Soul alone knows the -real measure of happiness and misery meted out to each of us. He also -knows in how much the crime carries with it its punishment.” - -“Thou art a strange man, Oman,” she answered, looking at him curiously. -“Sometimes I could think thee mad if thou wast not so—so assured. -Whence come these thoughts of thine? Art thou inspired?” - -“Nay, Zenaide. Knowledge must come to all who, by bitterness and tears, -have drawn near the infinite. Suffering brings much beauty to the soul. -I begin to think that men shun it too much.” And then Oman smiled, and -went away, fearing lest he had spoken too plainly to one who, through -her nature, might understand. - -Much to Oman’s surprise, and to the amazement and consternation of -the whole plateau, Bhavani, after six months of deliberation, acted -upon the impulsive suggestion made by Oman, in the river temple on the -anniversary of the death of Ahalya and Fidá. In the autumn of that -year the ashes of Rai-Khizar-Pál were removed from their tomb in the -palace, and borne down the river to a new grave. The act came very -near to causing a general uprising. Bhavani’s own son pleaded with his -father on his knees not to dishonor the great warrior, his grandfather, -and thus bring infamy upon himself and the whole line. It was in vain. -Oman’s secret idea had taken root in Bhavani’s heart; and a revolution -would not have turned him from his object. In the month of October, -just before the rains, Rai-Khizar’s ashes were laid beside those of his -dead wife, in a new marble tomb, the magnificence of which a little -consoled the people for the disrespect to their warrior king. - -It was Oman who was charged with the matter of the reinterment; and, -when the priests had finished their service after the burial, he went -down to the river bank, and at the risk of his life began to talk -to the angry mob that waited there. It was a dramatic scene. In the -beginning his voice was completely drowned by the roars and cries that -rose from the usually passive and obedient people. Probably only the -presence of Bhavani saved the hermit, as he was called, from personal -violence. But Oman held doggedly to his place; and, after a time his -very appearance, as he stood upon a block of stone twenty yards from -the temple, silenced the noise, and brought the people, against their -will, to listen to him. As he began to speak, his voice was like the -melodious ripple of a summer stream. He talked of wrong-doing and the -forgiveness of sin; and the doctrine that he preached had never been -heard in the east at all. One long before, in the west, had spoken such -words; but they had not lived truly in the hearts of men. Before Oman -paused, however, he had brought all the throng literally to his feet, -because of the things he said and the way he said them. And, in that -hour, Oman won his place with the low castes of Mandu, among whom, -henceforth, he was privileged to much that their priests could not -obtain of them. - -By this unpremeditated act, Oman made possible for himself something -that he had desired long and earnestly. It opened the way for him -to go down among the humbler people, and cause them to reveal their -souls to him, that he might give them his truths. In the next months -he studied, ardently, the nature of mankind, in the hope of finding -means of escape from temptation for those too weak to resist it, and -of giving proper strength to those who could still struggle against -themselves. But, even while he labored, a new discouragement came upon -him. He succeeded only too well in probing the natures of those who -sought his help. To him, whose severe and troubled life had been exempt -from the complicated wrong of living, the constant discoveries made to -him of selfishness, pettiness, deceit, of warped and perverted notions -of right and wrong, thrown before him in all the chaotic tangle of -actual existence, brought revelations that overpowered him with their -barefacedness. All alone he wrestled with problems that have neither -beginning nor end; where, from the first, all has been so wrong that -there is no hope of setting it right. He saw almost as the Almighty -must see:—the terrible falsity of each individual; and, the reason for -it, the reason for the fact of existence, being withheld from him, he -fainted under the burden of seemingly irreparable wrong. It was no joy -to him to reflect that, compared with most men, he had lived the life -of a saint. Oblivious of himself since his victory was won, he tried -to take up the battle for others too ill-equipped for resistance. And -thus, after all, Oman showed himself not very wise; for he had not -learned that, by the first law of creation, man works out his destiny -alone. But this new problem proved to be also his last turning-point. -He had ceased to live for himself. Henceforth all his desire was for -others. It is the last lesson:—one that men are not often trusted here -to learn. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - “LA-ILAHA-IL-LAL-LAHA” - - -Ten years glided away. Oman was more than forty, and Bhavani about -fifty-five. To the worker among men the time had seemed longer than -that spent on the Silver Peak. There he had, after a little, won -faith in himself. Here he came gradually to perceive that he was -accomplishing nothing of that which he had set out to do. Little by -little he was made to realize that those who are wholly of the world -can get no help out of the great, abstract truths: the high standard -of religion. This at last he perceived. But he would stoop to no creed -petty enough to catch the belief of his people. It was, indeed, only -what is discovered by all men who seek to bring high truths home to -narrow minds:—that the great, polluted religions have, by slow process -of retrograde development, been constituted by the masses for the -masses, who must thenceforth only be left alone to peck over and over -the heap of chaff from which the last kernels of truth have been long -since snatched away. - -Fortunately, during this period of thankless labor, Oman had not lost -touch with a wider world. Bhavani and Zenaide, the man and the woman, -were still his refuge. To them he carried some of his weariness, and -from them got constant renewal and refreshment. Their lives had become -tranquil,—singularly so, indeed. Only Bhavani, as he grew older, -sometimes chafed at the thought that he alone, of all Manduvian rulers, -had been peaceful, had brought no glories of conquest and plunder home -to his people. He fretted lest Mandu’s prestige had been dimmed by his -policy; though he could not deny that he had trebled the strength of -his kingdom in wealth and in population. - -“Ah,” he would sometimes say, “at my death the country will be fit for -Viradha’s rule. He will find her ready to give him soldiers and gold -for his wars. He will be what my father was. With all thy teachings, -Oman, thou hast never eradicated in him the warrior spirit.” - -And Oman would shake his head, his eyes growing sad; for he was not a -lover of war. - -This matter of the long-continued peace in Mandu was not wholly owing -to the policy of its present Rajah; for, during all the early part of -his reign, there had been quiet in the turbulent north. Now, however, -sinister rumors began to spread and grow. It was, indeed, a time of -universal disquiet; for this was the middle of the constructive period -of Indian history: the time of the fusion of two great races. Conquest -had begun two hundred years before, under the great lord of Ghazni. -The second conqueror, Mohammed Ghori, had been dead but forty years. -And, since then, the first line of slave kings, founded by Aybek, had -been broken by another slave:—Balban, the mighty minister of studious -Mahmoud. Under him began the first concerted campaigns into Gujerat and -Malwa, which were eventually to result in the conquest of everything -north of the Dekkhan. In Delhi, now the capital of Moslem India, there -dwelt more than one powerful general of the Prophet’s faith. Among -these, Osman-ibn-Omar, the Asra, had won high reputation for the -courage and daring that were, indeed, characteristic of his race. In -his youth he had known Lahore, even mountain-built Ghazni; and now, -his father long ago honorably dead in battle, the son, himself more -than sixty years old, dwelt in Delhi, yearning for new wars. And it -was eventually he, still bearing in mind an old, disastrous campaign -of Dhár in the Vindhyas, who now, in the year 1249, swore to his lord -a mighty oath that in him Malwa should find its conqueror. He would -go down to the south, and learn whether a cousin of his, whilom head -of the Asra race, were still, by any chance, alive and in captivity -among the unconquered natives. But of this matter the folk of Mandu, -peacefully engaged in the garnering of rice and millet, knew nothing, -and as little cared. - -Oman, perhaps, had some premonition of what was about to come. At any -rate, during this winter, his spirit was restless. He had recourse to -many long-abandoned methods of tranquillizing himself. He felt that he -was becoming world-troubled. The still waters of his nature had been -disturbed and set into motion by a too intimate knowledge of various -matters. And all his efforts after calm brought him but temporary -relief. - -Part of his trouble lay in the sad knowledge of Bhavani’s state. The -beloved of Mandu was afflicted with a mortal disease, slow in its -fatal progress, but so sure that no man knew of a single prayer, a -single sacrifice, that could prove efficacious. Zenaide and Oman, much -depending on each other, did not scruple to speak of the inevitable: -the shadow of death that hovered daily over them. Zenaide grew strong, -now. It was that strength of despair that upholds us at the last. Even -Oman, knowing, as he did, her inmost heart, marvelled sometimes at the -calm that possessed her. She was no longer young; but, unlike most of -her race and class, middle age had not made her ugly. She had lived -too well for that. Beauty of spirit, gathered during her years of -painful youth, the time of her sacrifice, brought its reward, clothing -her with a dignity and a serene beauty that mere happiness cannot -give. Bhavani’s wife was dead: had died as she had lived, among her -embroideries and her trivialities, regretting to the last the zenana -life in which she had been brought up. Bhavani, always reverent toward -her in life, felt no acute sorrow at her decease, and, after her -burial, returned to his usual way of life, affecting nothing. There -were still those in Mandu who wondered if he would not take to wife -the woman to whom he had been far more devoted than ever he was to the -daughter of Dhár. But Bhavani never entertained a thought of marrying -her who had been the greatest courtesan in Malwa. Nor did Zenaide -herself regard marriage as a possibility. Youth had passed both from -her and from him who, all unknown to her, had passionately loved her. -The fire of youth, quenched in its height, had found another life, -had been transmuted into a deep and holy affection that demanded no -closer bond than that of friendship. If the thought of marriage ever -came to the woman, it was only with the wish that, in the suffering he -endured almost constantly, she might comfort him as only women can. -But Bhavani preferred to die as he had lived: austerely and alone. If -he was aware how closely his people watched him, he gave no sign. Oman -sometimes wondered if the Rajah dreamed of the storm that his marriage -with Zenaide would have raised among the people. Only Oman, from his -constant intercourse with the lower classes, knew how blindly and -how bitterly the woman of the water-palace was still hated. But Oman -himself, had the two chosen to unite themselves, would have uttered not -one word of remonstrance:—would, indeed, have given his life in their -defence. So had time changed his earlier, rigid views. - -It was in this year 1249 that Viradha-Pál, the young prince, began to -take his place in the government of Mandu as a person of importance. -Indeed it was time that he came into his own. Bhavani had kept him too -long in the background. Mandu was beginning to whisper that he should -have been at war for them these five years past: that it behoved a -Kshatriya to follow his profession. And Viradha, allowed liberty of -action, proved himself worthy of his people by quickly claiming his -own. Bhavani let him go; for he knew that the spirit of the old warrior -kings was upon the youth; and he knew also, still better, that the -time approached when a warrior would be sorely needed in Mandu. For -Bhavani, in his peacefulness, was by no means blind to the outlook of -India; and it was no surprise when Viradha came to him with tales of -Mohammedan invasions in the north, and demands of an army with which to -march against the alien race. Bhavani acceded to his demands, making, -however, one stipulation. Viradha must marry. _Then_ he might -leave his wife and go forth to battle. Such was the rule in the Orient. - -Thus it came about, after all, that there were marriage feasts that -year in Mandu. A princess was brought from Mandaleshwar, on the north -bank of the Narmáda, far to the east. And there was a great Brahman -sacrifice, and the usual three days of ceremonial. The deserted -zenana was opened once more, and a new woman installed there in her -loneliness. One week her husband tarried by her side. Then he took his -man’s privilege, and left her alone in her state, while he marched away -at the head of his little army—fifteen hundred men—into the echoing -north. The benedictions and the adoration of all Mandu followed him. -Old Bhavani had been a good ruler, the kindest, the most just of -men. But, after all, men were made for war, and it was better that -the princes of men should be generals than judges. Alas for Mandu! -Rejoicing in its newly raised standards, shouting itself hoarse with -its own battle-cries, deaf to presentiment, to rumor, to the prophecies -of the gods, what wonder that it heard nothing of that faintly-echoing -cry that was ringing out over all the plains and heights of India? The -cry that had risen out of the black Kaaba of far Mecca, and now rolled, -in one continuous shout, from western Granada to Benares, the holy -city, transcending speech by its sharp fanaticism, finding by force a -home in every land: “_La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!_” This was the cry -that Viradha had gone forth to oppose. It was the same cry to which -Viradha’s grandfather had answered with his death. - -The young prince went away in the middle of the Ashtaka month -(December). His going made no change in Mandu, save that it gave the -people an added interest outside their monotonous lives. The pleasant -winter passed slowly away. Bhavani had begun to depend much on his -appointed teacher of men; and Oman left his unheeded labors among the -lowly in order to watch over his dearly loved lord. Bhavani was sad; -missed his son; suffered keenly, but did not complain. Oman himself -never suspected how much that royal soul endured, silently. But, as the -days passed, he became more and more aware of a changing aspect in many -things. There was in him a sense of foreboding, a feeling of finality, -indefinable, omnipresent. Zenaide also felt it, and her melancholy -became unconquerable. She knew what the outer senses could not tell -her; and even Oman’s quietly proffered sympathy was repelled. Bhavani -doubtless guessed all that passed in their minds; but he could not take -their burden from them. He knew himself to be too near the end. He -could only spare them anxiety by the silent endurance of pain. - -The end came sooner than even he, perhaps, had expected. It was in -February, about the middle of the month; and early thrills of spring -hung in the air. On the eighteenth day, at noon, Oman, who was in his -own room after a long morning in the school, was roused by Bhavani’s -favorite slave and conducted swiftly through the palace to Bhavani’s -bedroom. Bhavani was on his couch; and Oman, who had not seen him -since the previous evening, at once knew everything. The room was in -confusion. Evidently many people—doctors, priests, slaves—had been -there recently. Why they were now gone, Oman could not surmise. Bhavani -lay breathing in long, heavy gasps, with intervals of startling length. -His face wore the gray hue of death. His eyes were closed; but he felt -Oman’s entrance, for he put out his hand, and Oman took it and fell -upon his knees beside the bed. - -“Let me summon help for thee,” he said, in a low, clear voice that -suggested nothing of what he felt. - -“No,” gasped the dying one. Then, after an effort, he added: “I hear -Brahma’s voice. Shall I not—answer it?” - -Oman could not speak. He buried his head near the face of his friend. -It seemed to him, at that moment, that Fate had found a cruelty too -great for passive endurance. For Oman loved this man as he had never -hoped to love in life. It was like tearing his heart in two to watch -that inevitable, resistless advance of death. Yet, with the heroism -that was in him, he accepted Bhavani’s own decree: feeling, indeed, -that there was no human help for his King. - -Moments passed:—an hour:—and still Oman knelt by the bed. Suddenly it -seemed as if the Rajah’s breath was coming a little more easily, a -little less terribly. Quickly he lifted his head, and looked. There was -a change. Bhavani looked older, grayer, more shrunken. But his eyes -were half unclosed, and he seemed to be in less pain. While Oman gazed, -unable to speak, scarcely to think, a shadowy smile crossed the Rajah’s -lips, and he began to murmur a few unintelligible words. Oman bent to -catch them, and Bhavani’s eyes rested on his face. - -“Fidá,” he whispered, low, but distinctly: “we played together—with -Ahalya—” - -“Yes. Yes!” answered Oman, hoarsely. - -“Brave things. Let us play again. I always Arjuna. Thou, O Fidá, -Yudishthir, the King.—Ahalya, the beautiful Draupadi. I have won her -from all the rest. But now—we are marching away—from Hastinapur. We -are seeking heaven. It is a long journey. We reach the sea. Dost thou -remember all the places, Fidá? Agni stops us awhile; and then—we come -into the plain that leads to Himavan. I have read it many times. -See,—they are gone, all of them! Nakula and Bhima and Draupadi are dead -in the desert. But I go on alone into the hills—and—yes, this time he -is there!—Sakra—O God!—I come!—Behold, I come!” - -Smiling, gasping out these words of one of his childhood’s games, that -was, in fact, an epic of the pilgrimage of life, Bhavani, holy among -men, slipped away out of existence, perhaps ascending in Sakra’s own -chariot, that had so often awaited him in his young imagination. - -Till long after he knew that Bhavani was gone from him, Oman knelt -there, by the bed, gazing blindly on the still, waxen face. Presently -he became aware that there were others in the room. Slaves crept in -and out, and brought doctors and officials, and those who were to -care for the high dead. Then, dazed and bowed down with his weight of -grief, Oman rose and passed out, through the palace, between little -knots of whispering men who made way for him and looked after him, -longing but not daring to question. He left the palace behind and went -on to the duty that was his. The heart in him bled. There were no -thoughts of help or of comfort in his brain; yet he knew that none but -him could tell the woman of their common woe. So he turned toward the -water-palace, where he was always admitted without delay. - -Zenaide was in the wide, central court of her dwelling, lying on a pile -of cushions placed beside the marble pool. In her hand she held a piece -of millet cake, which she had been crumbling for the fishes in the -water. At Oman’s entrance, however, she rose, and went to him, hastily. -As she looked into his face, Oman, without speaking, watched her -expression change from gayety to wonder, and so to fear, till he knew -that there was not much to put into words. Now she reached out both her -hands, and Oman took them into his own. - -“Tell me,” she said, faintly. - -“Dost thou not know?” he asked, his voice seeming to him to come from -another world. - -“Bhavani,—” she began; but her voice broke. - -“There is no longer a Bhavani,” he answered, wondering at himself for -the speech. - -She took it quietly, letting his hands drop from hers, and turning -away so that, for some seconds, he could not see her face. Then she -moved nearer him again, and said, in tones not natural, but still well -controlled: “Come, let us go into a smaller room.” - -Oman assented in silence; and she led the way down a short passage to -that apartment in which they had held their first interview, many years -before. And there she caused him to sit down upon the broad divan, -while she took her place at his knee. Again, in their woe, their hands -met. And then Zenaide, bowing her head, let tears come. Oman could not -weep. His grief was deeper: far more terrible, indeed, than he had -believed it could be. His own great creed brought him no comfort. - - * * * * * - -Bhavani was entombed in the temple room of the palace, in the place -whence his father had been lately removed. The ceremonial of cremation -was magnificent; but there was one grave lack in it. No willing women -accompanied him into the flames. There were no blood relatives, no -children, to mourn at his bier. The spectators, who could remember his -father’s entombment, compared with this the wailing concourse which had -assembled about that funeral pyre, on which lay the body that had been -carried all the way back to Mandu from the disastrous plain of Dhár. -Here was no terrible grief of dying concubines and dust-covered widows: -no deep-throated sobbing of warrior sons. Two aliens, man and woman, -stood together, hand in hand, beside the frightened little bride of -Viradha; and these were all, beside the people, that mourned Bhavani’s -death. Truly, the royal line of Mandu was fading away! The long -ceremony brought to every heart a feeling of emptiness, of forlornity, -that was not easy to overcome. The people felt it, and even the -Brahmans; and there were those who covertly wondered if young Viradha, -returning home, would find his own awaiting him. - -Fortunately for himself, Oman had no time, in the next few weeks, -to grieve. Not knowing just how it came about, he found himself in -the position of regent, all Mandu having voluntarily demanded their -government of him. There being no other hand ready for the helm, he -accepted the place, constituting himself keeper of Viradha’s state, -guardian of his honor, treasurer of his heritage: holding himself ready -at any moment to deliver all these into the hands of the young King. He -clung closely to Bhavani’s methods, finding himself little at a loss -to fill a place the duties of which, from constant observation, he had -learned so well. - -Thus a month passed away. Oman, occupied almost day and night, saw -little of Zenaide, whose burden of grief was hers to bear alone. Oman, -even in his sadness, had found consolation in an unexpected effect of -his labor of the past ten years. He perceived that what he had hoped -for against hope was true: the people loved him. Through his years of -work among them they had treated him ill. They had been deaf to his -teachings; they had mocked at his laws; they had reviled him for heresy -to their faith. He had come to believe that he had brought good to not -one soul. And now, suddenly, upon the accession of a little pomp, they -went to him, sought his counsel, obeyed and loved him more than they -had ever obeyed and loved even Bhavani. Oman took their devotion for -the best that it brought; and rejoiced that his way was made easy for -him. Now he longed only for the return of Viradha, which could not be -much further delayed. He had gone away in December. It was now the end -of March. Surely the thought of his young wife must draw the warrior -homeward soon. Nay, Oman had a presentiment that the course of events -would force him back. - -Oman was right. Viradha did return, shortly. It was the last week -in March, and the spring was in its loveliest, early beauty. Was it -right that this renewal of youth, these ever-recurrent love-yearnings -of nature, should be broken by the harsh voices of war, an autumnal -woe of blood and death? Yet this came: so swiftly, so overwhelmingly, -that there was no time for consideration or planning. Only action was -necessary; and only action was taken. - -The first premonition of disaster came upon the afternoon of the second -day of April, when two or three wounded and exhausted fugitives reached -the haven of Mandu, bringing the startling news that Viradha and his -little army were close at hand, in full retreat before a victorious -Mohammedan horde, who had pursued them clear across the mountains. It -was a thunderbolt; for none had ever dreamed that the plateau, defended -by the whole wide range of the Vindhyas, could be in danger from the -conquerors of Delhi. But the word of the fugitives had to be accepted. -Their plight was unquestionable. Within twenty-four hours Viradha and -his men would be in Mandu, where something, no man said what, must -happen. - -Through the night, every soul on the plateau labored as never before. -Even the children were pressed into service; and Brahman and Sudra -worked side by side, placing barriers along the causeway, which, when -the Manduvians had reached the plateau, could be thrown across the -narrow bridge, and the invaders shut away. It was the only plan of -defence that occurred to Oman as feasible; and none of those that sat -in council with him could find a better. All was uncertain. They could -only busy themselves as best they could;—and wait. - -The waiting was not long. Through the whole of the morning of the -third, fugitive soldiers continued to pour in from the mountains, -bringing word of the valiant, the desperate bravery of Viradha in his -retreat, and of the overwhelming force of the invaders. Oman sat in the -great audience hall, questioning every soldier that came in, ordering, -thinking, planning, till, about one o’clock in the afternoon, there -came to his ears the sounds of a great, confused clamor:—the distant -battle-din that proclaimed the arrival of the Rajah and his army. - -Then, had any one been there to watch, he might have thought that the -Saint of Mandu had gone suddenly mad. A spirit of fury had, indeed, -rushed upon Oman. He ran out of the palace into the courtyard, where, -by his command, a horse was waiting for him. He sprang upon it. All the -man, all the one-time Asra bravery of Fidá, was seething in his blood, -beating in his brain. From a staring slave-boy he seized a shield and -spear, but waited for no armor. Clad in his accustomed white garments, -a white turban on his head, and, for his one ornament, the great ruby -hung about his neck, he started away, at full gallop, down the road -toward the causeway. As he advanced, the sounds grew nearer: the noise -more hideous. And above it all, from time to time, like a sentence -of doom and death, came the strange accents of that strangest of all -battle-cries: “_La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!_” which, twisted, means: -“There is no God but God.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - THE SIGN OF THE RUBY - - -The galloping horse, with its white rider, dashed round the curve -in the road that opened upon the great stone causeway; and Oman -perceived that he was none too soon. It was upon that narrow bridge -that the long, horrible retreat of the young Rajah of Mandu had -reached its climax. Here he made his last stand against the invincible -Prophet-horde. The scene on the causeway was indescribable. Oman had -one moment’s survey of it: one moment, during which all his strength, -all the fury of race and loyalty that were in him, rushed into his -two arms, into his brain, into his eyes. Then, without pause, he was -carried down into the writhing, struggling mass. - -The plan of defence prepared over night for Viradha’s assistance had -come to naught. The two armies had fought their way, hand to hand, all -down the rocky defile that led to the plateau; and they reached the -causeway in an inseparable mass. It had taken the whole morning for the -Moslems to force the defenders from the entrance of the pass, two miles -above, to the bridge. The men of Mandu, knowing well the consequence -of defeat, had fought as never men fought before; and now, on the -threshold of their homes, they made the supreme effort. The retreat was -over. The fight on the causeway was the death struggle. When it ended, -there would be no more resistance to the followers of Mohammed. - -Like others on that bridge, Oman too had gone mad. He did not think, -he did not feel. He was a machine. His horse, trained to war, had -plunged into the very thick of the battle. On every side men were -fighting together: man to man, two to one, three to one, but always -without concerted action, always as in a series of duels. Of those in -the mêlée, Oman was the only one who wore no armor; and how, during the -first ten minutes, he escaped with his life, it would be impossible to -say. After that, his shield was omnipresent, his sword all-pervading. -Man after man went down before him. Those of Mandu that saw him, -marvelled. Their Saint had become inspired by a demon. The Mohammedans -regarded him with suspicious fear. Was this an angel, a Jin, come from -heaven to defend a chosen country? It seemed, for a few minutes, as if -his appearance might turn the tide of battle. But victory was not for -Mandu. Where the war-cry of the Prophet now rose in India, it was not -to be stilled by any bravery, any heroism. Just now, no one looking at -that close-writhing mass of combatants could have told which way the -fight was going. But there was, for the Indians, a very _sense_ of -defeat, a gradually increasing fear, born of presentiment. Oman felt it -with the rest; but still he fought, with the fierceness of despair. - -Not yet, in the closely packed company, had he caught a glimpse of the -young Rajah. Dealing out his blows and parries almost mechanically, -Oman found time to wonder in which of the heaps of dead and dying piled -against the high balustrades of the causeway, the son of Bhavani lay. -But presently the horror of that thought was removed. Just before him, -upreared on a bleeding horse, helmetless, blood-smeared, worn almost -beyond recognition with the work of the last week, was Viradha, closely -beset by a powerful Moslem, whose rich accoutrements and shining -scimitar proclaimed him of rank. In a kind of maze, Oman watched the -young man parry blow after blow, saw the terrible weapon finally -plunged down with undefensible stroke, and, in the same instant, waking -from his trance, flung himself forward across the young man’s body and -lifted his face to that of the Mohammedan. There was a strange shock. -The Moslem recoiled from the blow he had dealt, his eyes fixed in -fascination on something that shone on Oman’s uplifted breast:—the Asra -ruby, blazing in the sun. - -Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body beneath -him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his horse, -limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very -heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu -was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a -dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great -Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then -straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians, -those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging -for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving -what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury, -and hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At -once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left, -and Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders, -and the soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the -arms, lifted him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till -he stood on his feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one -of the empty watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him -fast, hand and foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from -their accoutrements, and then, with some words incomprehensible to him, -they descended to the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his -thoughts swam through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of -passion setting in, he mercifully fainted. - -He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again, -there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many -dead, not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the -horde on the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight -was pouring through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower. -Oman looked into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he -closed his eyes. He was in great pain; and half of him was numb with -lying for so long in one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the -battle, received one or two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the -excitement, but which now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of -his arms and ankles where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind -of stupor of pain. He could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but -he could not think of anything. Why should he? Everything was gone; -and the mass of fact was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain, -recently overactive, was as weary as his body. He was aware only of the -lengthening afternoon, his own pain, and his rising thirst. - -After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young -moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy. -It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a -little if he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving -for water. To his dulled mind it made little difference, just now. -Wondering, stupidly, he fell asleep. - -Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after moonset, -which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—soldiers—who, -penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a torch, and -addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown tongue. Oman, -obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet, swayed and -reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into sensibility by -one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed. So, presently, -the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side, descended the -narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the causeway. Here -was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan conqueror himself. -All was deathly still, yet already men were working by the light of -torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks of light -and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge reeked -and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies blocked -the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand, were -great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose; -but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am -I not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had -seen Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that -quarter had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even -before this scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been -ready to face the Unknown Beyond. - -It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little -why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their -headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army -had swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race -long accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed -the water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its -empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could say? -Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they reached -the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In the -centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni -and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and weary -soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking, shouting, -laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman find a -familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass and -repass through this court by night and day? Where were the officials? -Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought, Oman -trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the square, -and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed. - -The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that threw -a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu feast had -been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-cellars -found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the tenets -of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10] -fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in -his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great -general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the -head of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the -figure in the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on -the step and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture -of him there. The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair -and beard framed a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his -armor had been removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily -embroidered and studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green; -and in his belt was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with -emeralds and blood-stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of -that perishable race; and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet -the deep-eyed gaze of him who wore the lost charm of the Asra. - - [10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the - Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were - notorious for debauchery. - -Lifting his voice above the general clamor, the conqueror summoned Oman -to him. The captive obeyed, moving slowly forward till he could have -touched the hand of his captor, who still stood gazing at him. Again -their eyes met; and this time, before the penetrating glance of the -hermit, the eyes of the warrior fell. After an instant, however, they -were lifted again, and Osman, speaking in perfect Hindustanee, said: - -“Thou art he whom they called, this afternoon, the white Demon?” - -“I do not know what men called me.” - -“Thou wouldst have saved the young Rajah from my scimitar?” - -“Assuredly,” answered Oman, scowling; and the conqueror laughed. - -In a moment, however, he was serious again, and, dropping all -preliminaries, demanded: “That stone—the ruby that you wear upon your -neck—what is it called? Where found you it?” - -A sudden flash of understanding, of more than understanding, rushed -over Oman. Out of the long, long ago came remembrance of this same man -that now stood before him; and he asked, suddenly, the involuntary -question: - -“Art thou Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra?” - -“Yes. By the Prophet, how knewest thou I was ibn-Omar?” - -Oman did not answer. He took from his throat the chain on which hung -the great ruby; and, with an indescribable gesture, he went forward and -slipped it over the head of the Mohammedan. “It is the Asra ruby,” said -he. “It has found its race again. My trust is finished.” - -Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room; nor -did any one attempt to stop him. Osman, confounded, dazed, indeed, by -the assurance of Oman’s act, remained motionless, staring after him. -The two guards who had brought him from the tower, and had watched the -scene with speechless astonishment, seeing that their lord gave no -commands about his recapture, stepped aside to let him pass. And the -others in the room never noticed him at all. - -Heeding nothing of what lay behind, entirely fearless of the -conquerors, Oman left the hall in which Rai-Khizar-Pál, and Bhavani, -and lately he himself, had been wont to sit in council, crossed the -broad courtyard where the slave Fidá had so often watched, and finally -reached the road, which was silent, and lighted only by the stars. The -palace of Mandu was behind him, but he had yet one other mission to -fulfil. He went on to the water-palace, which, a little while before, -he had beheld, still with the stillness of death. Was Zenaide there? -Or whither was she gone? He must know. For she had now only him in the -world to look to. - -When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement and -consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within, -near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round -about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound. -There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the -wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction -from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had -reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum: -her sleeping chamber. Here he found her. - -All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung -with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves. -There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt -half a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these -were one or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but -uttering no sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived -something else, which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At -the far end of the room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and -upon it, quiet, peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess -of Radha, in her last sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful, -red-dyed hair was bound smoothly into a high crown above her brow, -and one or two white lotos flowers were fastened above her ears. Her -garments were all white, her feet encased in white shoes. There was but -one spot of color anywhere. Over her heart, beneath her left breast, -was a stain of moist crimson, that widened and spread a little, even as -Oman gazed. It told him all that he would have asked. He stood silent -over her, while the women and slaves crept close, looking up to him -with some sign of hope in their heavy eyes. But, for the first time, -perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His thoughts, indeed, were not here. -He was thinking of the slow order in which every one that he had known -and loved in his life had passed into the other land. It was beginning -to come home to him that his own hour of liberation was near. His eyes -travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect form, from her face, which now, -in its repose, showed the marks of time and sorrow, down her white -arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then, suddenly lifting his hands -over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee, in peace!” - -Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him, demanding -what they were to do. - -“The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let -her be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye -convey this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord -Bhavani. Thus they shall meet in blessed death.” - -Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s -favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying: -“And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a -whisper, for she felt her presumption. - -“Whither I go ye know not. Sufficient it is that ye see me for the last -time. I commend your mistress to your care. Farewell.” - -Then Oman, in his stained garments, with the marks of fetters on his -wrists and ankles, left the room of mourning and passed through the -house till he came again to the central room. Here, the crises of the -day at last ended, his body was overcome with weariness; and he lay -down beside the marble pool, and slept. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - SUNSET - - -When Oman opened his eyes again, red dawn was just breaking upon a -silent world. Kneeling at the pool, he performed his ablutions, and -then walked to the open door. How fragrant the morning was! The air -was rich with the perfume of flowers. Even in the early freshness -there was a promise of heat; and drowsy bird twitterings complained of -it. But Oman, standing quiet in the door of the water-palace, thought -not of nature. He was looking out across still Mandu, the conquered -land; and the heart in him bled and ached. Yesterday he had fought -for his people, his country, his lord. To-day there remained only the -bitterness of irretrievable defeat. And Oman’s one thought now was -for the people:—the men and women of the fields, who were left to -bend beneath the conqueror’s yoke. These lowly ones, for whom he had -labored so long, he could help no more. If he went among them to-day, -and listened to their plaints, he should have no comfort for them, -could counsel nothing but that which it were best for them to learn for -themselves:—submission. - -Oman, faint from long fasting, leaned his head against the door, and -looked out across the quiet fields. His thoughts were turned to strange -things. He remembered that it was the fourth day of April:—the day when -Mandu was accustomed to worship at the distant tombs of Rai-Khizar-Pál, -the Woman, and the Slave. There would be no prayers offered there -to-day. What matter? What mattered anything? To the strange one, -leaning upon the dawn, came a great peace. Perhaps he slept. Certainly -he dreamed; for there passed before him, in the faint light, a pageant -of those whom he had known. And they called to him, softly, and -welcomed him with greetings. First of all, from out of the long ago, -came Kota, his mother, who looked on him with tender eyes, as one who -had worshipped her first-born; and, with gentle motions, she beckoned -to him. Next was Hushka, the Bhikkhu, clad in worn, yellow robes, -with a pale nimbus round his head. There was peace in his shining -eyes, and Oman knew that he no longer dreaded the weary eight months’ -pilgrimage. He had won his eternal Arahatship. Then followed Churi, -madness no longer written in his haggard face. He smiled upon Oman, and -called a greeting, in friendly voice. After him came Bhavani, looking -as in life, an expression of high dignity mingling with the infinite -affection in his face. Behind, moved young Viradha, with many wounds; -and Zenaide, newly dead, with lilies in her hands. Slowly, slowly they -passed from sight: phantasms, perhaps, of Oman’s brain. He thought them -gone, when, out of the gray mist, came two more, hand in hand, spirits -interlocked, faint, shadowy, as if they did not live even in their -ghostly land: a man and a woman. Seeing them, Oman shuddered violently, -and shut his eyes. When he looked again upon the world, there was -nothing there. He felt only a great warmth in his heart, a burning -eagerness to answer the calling of his dead. Thus he straightened -up, and started forth, looking neither to the right nor left, in the -direction of the great palace. - -His way was lonely. He met no one till he had passed round the building -where the Asra chieftain lay asleep. Behind the palace sat a little -group of slaves, eating a meal of millet cakes and milk, which they -timidly offered to share with Oman. Oman sat with them, and broke their -bread, and drank of their simple beverage; then, rising, he offered -them a ring which he wore in memory of Bhavani:—a circlet of plain -gold; all that he had upon him of any value. Wondering, the simple -creatures accepted it, not in payment for what he had eaten, but -because high lords walk always abroad with gifts for the poor. And, -proffering thanks to Oman and to Vishnu indiscriminately, they watched -the hermit begin his descent of the plateau. - -It was nearly noon when he stood at last upon the plain. He had been a -long time coming down; for he had been often obliged to pause and rest. -He began to realize that he was shattered by the struggle of yesterday. -Body and nerves played him false, and the result of his many years of -austere living suddenly threw itself against him and broke his force. -Nevertheless, he proceeded, walking feebly across the plain toward the -river bank, wondering a little how, when he had reached the river, he -was going to finish his journey. None seeing him would have believed -that he could walk five miles more. Yet that was what he had set out -to do. He wished to go to the river temple, to pray for the three that -were buried there. - -His passage across the plain was strangely solitary. The rich fields, -in which stood crops already a foot high, the young spears calling for -water, were deserted. Here also was the trace of the invader. All the -people of the lowland, quickly getting news of Mandu’s disaster, had -driven together their herds of cattle and buffalo and retreated with -them into the jungle:—a heedless, sheeplike retreat, that lost them -their half-year’s crops, but could not make encounter with the soldiers -of the Prophet less inevitable. - -An hour after noon, weary and faint, tottering, indeed, as he moved, -Oman reached the bank of the bright-flowing Narmáda. Here he found that -his providence had not deserted him. On the shore, close at hand, drawn -a little up from the swift water, lay one of the broad, flat-bottomed -boats used occasionally by peasants for ferrying the stream. The -guiding-poles lay in it—a fact that told much. Those that had used the -boat would not use it again, else they had taken the poles with them. -Oman stared at it for a few moments, uncertainly. Then he waded into -the water, and dragged it, with great effort, after him. When it was -afloat, he threw himself upon it, took one of the poles, pointed his -barge down-stream, and then, as the current took it with a rush, lay -down supine, folded his arms across his breast, and shut his eyes. - -The afternoon of the first day of Mohammedan Mandu was growing late. -Yellow shadows lengthened across the fields. To the south, the flat, -alluvial plain stretched away, dotted now and then with a mud town, -or fringed with the jungle into which, in the India of that day, all -civilization sooner or later resolved itself. In the north, not very -far distant, rose the great rock of Mandu, crowned with her circle of -stone palaces; and back of that, a silent, threatening horde, stood the -dark Vindhyas, barriers of the Dekkhan. - -Of these things Oman saw none. He knew that they were there, but his -eyes were at rest, and the troubles of life and of conquest had left -his heart. He was floating swiftly into the sunset. His boat, guided -as if by magic, swept on, down the rushing current, till the tiny, -dark blot of the temple-tomb grew, and took shape, and drew near upon -the right bank. After a time Oman stood up to watch, waiting for a -moment when he could beach the boat beside the building. But help was -not demanded of his hands. As they neared the destination, the river -curved; and suddenly, driven by some counter-current, the boat whirled -off and ran aground, exactly in front of the tomb. It was, perhaps, -the selfsame twist that had, more than forty years before, thrown the -bodies of the man and woman up out of their grim refuge. To him that -was waiting to enter the temple, it was a miracle. He felt that he had -chosen a true way; that his act in leaving Mandu had been approved by a -higher mind than his. - -Now, in the golden afternoon, he stood alone before the tomb. A vast -stillness encompassed him as he moved forward and unlocked the heavy -doors. There, in the dim mustiness of the long-closed place, stood the -two sarcophagi; and, as always, when he came alone hither, he had a -feeling of intimacy with the dead. But this sense had never been so -strong as now. He knelt beside the ashes of Ahalya and Fidá, and prayed -to the great Brahm; and, as he prayed, there arose in his breast an -overmastering desire:—the desire to lay himself down in the shadows -of the little place and sleep. After a time he passed over to the -resting-place of the old Rajah, and dumbly craved his forgiveness for -the wrong done him by his wife and his slave. Then, finally, he went -outside again, and stood upon the bank of the stream. - -Sunset had come. The Narmáda rushed by: a tempestuous flood of crimson -and gold. The world was alight with fiery glory. It was the sign of -the conqueror in the land. Only the being who stood alone in his -surrounding solitude, the long years of his expiation and atonement -behind him now, could turn his face fearlessly, without dread, toward -that coppery sky. As he gazed into it, the gray and violet shadows came -stealing out over the splendor. The day was dying. It was again the -prophecy of the India that should, in time, conquer its conquerors. - -With a palpitating heart, Oman gazed about him, overcome by the -strangest emotion. It was as if his souls were straining at their -fetters. Yet still there was a sense of desolation, a lack of something -that was to come. Darkness was around him. Then suddenly, out of the -west, from the now hidden fires there, it appeared:—the slender, -gray-winged bird, the mysterious complement of his souls. As of old, -straight to his breast it flew, trembling and warm. Clasping it close, -Oman lifted his head and murmured softly: - -“Lord, it is finished. Let me now go.” - -Then he turned, and slowly, very slowly, walked into the temple. One -outside, looking in through the shadows, might have perceived that he -laid himself down upon the tomb of the two that had sinned of old; -and that the bird upon his breast was still. A little later, moved, -perhaps, by the evening wind, the doors swung gently to upon the body -that had now delivered up its long-imprisoned souls. - - * * * * * - -What befell on High I do not know. But the hermit of the Silver Peak, -the Saint of Mandu, was gone. Nor was he seen upon earth again. - - - THE END - - - - - NEW FICTION - - - THE CROSSING - - By WINSTON CHURCHILL - - _Author of “The Crisis,” “Richard Carvel,” etc._ - - With Illustrations in Colors by Sydney Adamson and Lilian Bayliss - - Cloth 12mo $1.50 - -The theme of Mr. Churchill’s new novel is largely the peaceful conquest -of the great Louisiana Territory by American settlers during the -years from the purchase of Louisiana onward. 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