"Surely this is very rare?" I remarked, as looking through a herbarium
of Himalayan plants belonging to a friend of mine, I came upon a small
anemone which, contrary to the custom of that most delicate of flowers,
had preserved its colour in all its first freshness. Indeed, the
scarlet petals, each bearing a distinct, heart-shaped blotch of white
in the centre, could scarcely have glowed more brilliantly in life than
they did in death.
"Very rare," returned the owner after a pause; "I have reason to
believe it unique--so far as collections go, at any rate."
"I see you have called it _Remissionensis_. What induced you to give it
such an odd name?"
He smiled. "Dog Latin, I acknowledge. As for the reason--can you not
guess?"
"Well," I replied, looking closer at the white and red flowers, "I have
not your vivid imagination, but I presume it was in allusion to sins as
scarlet, and hearts white as wool. Ah! it was found, I see, near the
Cave of Amar-nath; that accounts for the connection of ideas."
"No doubt," he said quietly, "that accounts for the connection in a
measure; not entirely. The fact is, a very odd story--the oddest story
I ever came into personally--is connected with that flower. You
remember Taylor, surgeon of the 101st, who died of pyaemia contracted in
some of his cholera experiments? Well, just after I joined we chummed
together in Cashmere, where he was making the herbarium at which you
have been looking. He was a most charming companion for a youngster
eager to understand something of a new life, for, without exception, he
knew more of native thought and feeling than any other man I ever met.
He had a sort of intuition about it; yet at the same time he was
curiously unsympathetic, and seemed to look upon it merely as a field
for research, and nothing more. He used to talk to every man he met on
the road, and in this way managed to acquire an extraordinary amount of
information utterly undreamed of by most Englishmen. For instance, his
first acquaintance with the existence of this anemone grew out of a
chance conversation with an old ruffian besmeared with filth from head
to foot, and it was his consequent desire to add the rarity to his
collection, joined to my fancy for seeing a real pilgrimage, which
brought us to Islamabad about the end of July, about the time, that is
to say, of the annual festival.
"The sacred spring where the pilgrimage is inaugurated by a solemn
feeding of the holy fish is some way from the town, so we pitched our
tents under a plane-tree close to the temples, in order to see the
whole show. And a queer show it was. Brummagem umbrellas stuck like
mushrooms over green stretches of grass, and giving shelter to a motley
crew; _jogis_, or wandering mendicants, meditating on the mystic word
Om, and thereafter lighting sacred fires with Swedish _taendstickors_;
Government clerks, bereft of raiment, forgetting reports and averages
in a return to primitive humanity. Taylor never tired of pointing out
these strange contrasts, and over his evening pipe read me many a long
lecture on the putting of new wine into old bottles. For myself, it
interested me immensely. I liked to think of the young men and maidens,
the weary workers, and the hoary old sinners, all journeying in faith,
hope, and charity (or the want of it) to the Cave of Amar-nath in order
to get the Great Ledger of Life settled up to date, and so to return
scot-free to the world, the flesh, and the devil, in order to begin the
old round all over again. I liked to think that crime sufficient to
drag half Hindostan to the nethermost pit had been made over to those
white gypsum cliffs, and that still, summer after summer, the wind
flowers sprang from the crannies, and the forget-me-nots with their
message of warning came to carpet the way for those eager feet seeking
the impossible. I liked to see all the strange perversities and pieties
displayed by the _jogis_ and _gosains_. It was from one of the latter,
a horrid old ruffian (so ridiculously like _Il Re Galant 'uomo_, that
we nicknamed him Victor Emanuel on the spot), that Taylor had first
heard of the Flower of Forgiveness, as the man styled it. He and the
doctor grew quite hot over the possible remission of sins; but the
subsequent gift of one rupee sterling sent him away asseverating that
none could filch from him the first-fruits of pilgrimage--namely, the
opportunity of meeting a Protector of the Poor so virtuous, so
generous, so full of the hoarded wisdom of ages. I recognised the old
humbug in the crowd as we made our way to a sort of latticed gallery
belonging to the Maharajah's guest-house, which gave on the tank where
the fish are fed. He salaamed profoundly, and, with a grin, expressed
his delight that, after all, the great doctor _sahib_ should be seeking
forgiveness.
"'I seek the flower only, Pious One,' replied Taylor, with a shrug of
the shoulders.
"'Perhaps 'tis the same thing,' replied Victor Emanuel with another
salaam.
"The square tank was edged by humanity in the white and saffron robes
of pilgrimage. Brimming up to the stone step, worn smooth by
generations of sinners, the waters of the spring lapped lazily, stirred
by the myriads of small fish which, in their eagerness for the coming
feast, flashed hither and thither like meteors, to gather in radiating
stars round the least speck on the surface; sometimes in their haste
rising in scaly mounds above the water. The blare of a conch and a
clanging of discordant bells made all eyes turn to the platform in
front of the temple, where the attendant Brahmans stood with
high-heaped baskets of grain awaiting the sacrificial words about to be
spoken by an old man, who, with one foot on the bank, spread his arms
skywards--an old man of insignificant height, but with an indescribable
dignity, on which I remarked to my companion.
"'It is indescribable,' he assented, 'because it is compounded of
factors not only wide as the poles asunder from you and me, but also
from each other. Pride of twice-born trebly-distilled ancestry bringing
a conviction of inherited worthiness; pride in hardly-acquired devotion
giving birth to a sense of personal frailty. _That_ is the Brahman whom
we lump into a third-class railway carriage with the ruck of humanity,
and then wonder--hush! he is going to begin.'
"'Thou art Light! Thou art Immortal Life!' The voice, with a tremor of
emotion in it, pierced the stillness for a second before it was
shattered by a hoarse, strident cry--'Silence!'
"Taylor leaned forward, suddenly interested. 'You're in luck,' he
whispered, 'I believe there is going to be a row of some sort.'
"Once more the cry rose harsher than before: 'Silence, Sukya! Thou art
impure.'
"A stir in the crowd, and a visible straightening of the old man's back
were the only results.
"'Thou art the Holiest Sacrifice! We adore Thee, adorable Sun!'
"'Silence!'
"This time the interruption took shape in a _jogi_, who, forcing his
way through the dense ranks, emerged on the platform to stand pointing
with denunciatory finger at the old Brahman. Naked, save for the cable
of grass round his loins and the smearing of white ashes, with hair
lime-bleached and plaited with hemp into a sort of _chignon_, no more
ghastly figure could be conceived. The crowd, however, hailed him with
evident respect, while a murmur of 'Gopi! 'tis Gopi the _bikshu_
(religious beggar)' passed from mouth to mouth. This reception seemed
to rouse the old man's wrath, for after one scornful glance at the
new-comer he was about to continue his invocation to the sun, when the
_jogi_, striding forward, flourished his mendicant's staff so close to
the other's face that he perforce fell back.
"Before the crowd had grasped the deadly earnest of the scene, a lad of
about sixteen, clad in the black antelope skin which marks a religious
disciple, had leaped, quivering with rage, between the old man and his
assailant.
"'By George,' muttered Taylor, 'what a splendid young fellow!'
"He was indeed. Extraordinarily fair, even for the fairest race in
India, he might have served as model for a young Perseus as he stood
there, the antelope skin falling from his right shoulder, leaving the
sacred cord of the Brahman visible on his left, while his smooth, round
limbs showed in all their naked, vigorous young beauty.
"'Stand off, Amra! who bade thee interfere?' cried the old man sternly.
The bond between them was manifest by the alacrity with which the boy
obeyed the command; for to the spiritual master implicit obedience is
due. At the same moment the chief priest of the shrine, alarmed at an
incident which might interfere with the expected almsgiving, hurried
forward. Luckily the crowd kept the silence which characterises
gregarious humanity in the East, so we could follow what was said.
"'Wilt remove yonder drunken fanatic, or shall the worship of the
Shining Ones be profaned?' asked the old Brahman savagely; and at a
sign from their chief the attendants stepped forward.
"But the _jogi_ facing the crowd, appealed direct to that fear of
defilement which haunts the Hindu's heart. 'Impure! Impure! Touch him
not! Hear him not! Look not on him!' The vast concourse swayed and
stirred, as with a confident air the _jogi_ turned to the chief priest.
'These twelve years agone, O! _mohunt-ji_'[1] thou knowest Gopi--Gopi
the _bikshu!_ since for twelve years I have been led hither by the
Spirit, seeking speech, and finding silence! But now speech is given by
the same Spirit. That man, Sukya, anchorite of Setanagar, is unclean,
false to his race, to his vows, to the Shining Ones! I, Gopi the
_bikshu_, will prove it.'
"Once again a murmur rose like the wind presaging a storm, and as the
crowd surged closer to the temple, a young girl in the saffron drapery
of a pilgrim took advantage of the movement to make her way to the
platform, with the evident intention of pressing to the old man's side;
but she was arrested by the young Perseus, who, with firm hands
clasping hers, whispered something in her ear. She smiled up at him;
and so they stood, hand in hand, eager but confident, as the Brahman's
voice, clear with certainty, dominated the confusion.
"'Ay! Prove it! Prove that I, Sukya, taught of the great Swami,
twice-born Brahman, faithful disciple, blameless householder and pious
anchorite in due turn, as the faith demands, have failed once in the
law without repentance and atonement! Lo! I swear by the Shining Ones
that I stand before ye to-day, body and soul, holy to the uttermost.'
"'God gie us a gude conceit o' oursels,' muttered Taylor.
"The remark jarred on me painfully, for the spiritual exaltation in the
man's face had nothing personal in it; nothing more selfish than the
rapt confidence which glorified the young disciple's whole bearing, as
he gazed on his master with the sort of blind adoration one sees in the
eyes of a dog.
"'Think! I am Sukya!' went on the high-pitched voice. 'Would Sukya come
between his brethren and the Shining Ones? I, chosen for the oblation
by reason of virtue and learning; I, Sukya, journeying to holy
Amar-nath not for my own sake,--for I fear no judgment,--but for the
sake of the disciple, yonder boy Amra, betrothed to the daughter of my
daughter, and vowed to the pilgrimage from birth.'
"A yell of crackling laughter came from the _jogi_ as he leapt to the
bastion of the bathing-place, and so, raised within sight of all,
struck an attitude of indignant appeal. 'When was an outcast vowed to
pilgrimage? And by my _jogi's_ vow I swear the boy Amra, disciple of
Sukya, to be an outcast. A Sudra of Sudras! seeing that his mother,
being twice-born, defiled her race with scum from beyond the seas.'
"'By George!' muttered Taylor again, 'this is getting lively--for the
scum.'
"'Perhaps the Presence is becoming tired of this vulgar scene,'
suggested an obsequious _chuprassi_, who had been devoted to our
service by order of the Cashmere officials; but the Presences were
deeply interested. For all that, I should not care to witness such a
sight again. The attention of the crowd, centred a moment before on the
_jogi_, was turned now on the boy, who stood absolutely alone; the
girl, moved by the unreasoning habit of race, having dropped his hand
at the first word and crept to her grandfather's side. I can see that
young face still, awful in its terror, piteous in its entreaty.
"'Thou liest, Gopi!' cried the Brahman, gasping with passion; and at
the words a gleam of hope crept to those hunted eyes. 'Prove it, I say;
for I appeal to the Shining Ones whom I have served.'
"'I accept the challenge,' yelled the _jogi_ with frantic gestures,
while a perfect roar of assent, cries of devotion, and prayers for
guidance, rose from the crowd.
"Taylor looked round at me quickly. 'You are in luck. There is going to
be a miracle. I saw that Gopi at Hurdwar once; he is a rare hand at
them.' He must have understood my resentment at being thus recalled to
the nineteenth century, for he added half to himself, ''Tis tragedy for
all that,--to the boy.'
"An appeal for silence enabled us to hear that both parties had agreed
to refer the question of birth to the sacred cord, with which every
male of the three twice-born castes is invested. If the strands were of
the pure cotton ordained by ritual to the Brahman, the boy should be
held of pure blood; but the admixture of anything pointing to the
despised Sudra would make him _anathema maranatha_, and render his
master impure, and therefore unfit to lead the devotions of others.
"I cannot attempt to describe the scene which followed; for even now,
the confusion inseparable from finding yourself in surroundings which
require explanation before they can fall into their appointed place in
the picture, prevents me from remembering anything in detail--anything
but a surging sea of saffron and white, a babel of wild cries, '_Hurri!
Gunga-ji! Dhurm! Dhurm!_' (Hurri![2] Ganges! the Faith! the Faith!)
Then suddenly a roar--'Gopi! a miracle! a miracle! Praise be to the
Shining Ones!'
"It seemed but a moment ere the enthusiastic crowd had swept the _jogi_
from his pedestal, and, crowned with jasmin chaplets, he was being
borne high on men's shoulders to make a round of the various temples;
while the keepers of the shrine swelled the tumult judiciously by cries
of 'Oblations! offerings! The Shining Ones are present to-day!'
"In my excitement at the scene itself I had forgotten its cause, and
was regretting the all too sudden ending of the spectacle, when Taylor
touched me on the arm. 'The tragedy is about to begin! Look!'
"Following his eyes I saw, indeed, tragedy enough to make me forget
what had gone before; yet I knew well that I did not, could not, fathom
its depth or measure its breadth. Still, in a dim way I realised that
the boy, standing as if turned to stone, had passed in those few
moments from life as surely as if a physical death had struck him down;
that he might indeed have been less forlorn had such been the case,
since some one for their own sakes might then have given him six feet
of earth. And now, even a cup of water, that last refuge of cold
charity, was denied to him for ever, save from hands whose touch was to
his Brahmanised soul worse than death. For him there was no future. For
the old man who, burdened by the weeping girl, stood opposite him,
there was no past. Nothing but a hell of defilement; of daily, hourly
impurity for twelve long years. The thought was damnation.
"'Come, Premi! come!' he muttered, turning suddenly to leave the
platform. 'This is no place for us now. Quick! we must cleanse
ourselves from deadly sin--from deadly, deadly sin.'
"They had reached the steps leading down to the tank when the boy, with
a sob like that of a wounded animal, flung himself in agonised entreaty
at his master's feet. 'Oh, cleanse me, even me also, oh my father!'
"The old man shrank back instinctively; yet there was no anger, only a
merciless decision in his face. 'Ask not the impossible! Thou art not
alone impure; thou art uncleansable from birth--yea! for ever and ever.
Come, Premi, come, my child.'
"I shall never forget the cry which echoed over the water, startling
the pigeons from their evening rest amid the encircling trees.
'Uncleansable for ever and ever!' Then in wild appeal from earth to
heaven he threw his arms skyward. 'Oh, Shining Ones! say I am the same
Amra, the twice-born Amra, thy servant!'
"'Peace! blasphemer!' interrupted the Brahman sternly. 'There are no
Shining Ones for such as thou. Go! lest they strike thee dead in
wrath.'
"A momentary glimpse of a young face distraught by despair, of an old
one firm in repudiation, and the platform lay empty of the passions
which had played their parts on it as on a stage. Only from the
distance came the discordant triumph of the _jogi's_ procession.
"I besieged Taylor's superior knowledge by vain questions, to most of
which he shook his head. 'How can I tell?' he said somewhat fretfully.
'The cord was manipulated in some way, of course. For all that, there
may be truth in Gopi's story. There is generally the devil to pay if a
Brahmani goes wrong, and she may have tried to save the boy's life by
getting rid of him. If you want to know more, I'll send for Victor
Emanuel. Five rupees will fetch some slight fraction of truth from the
bottom of his well, and that, as a rule, is all we aliens can expect in
these incidents.'
"So the old ruffian came and sat ostentatiously far from our
contaminating influences in the attitude of a bronze Buddha, his
mustaches curled to his eyebrows, his large lips wreathed in solemn
smiles. 'It was a truly divine miracle,' he said blandly. 'Gopi, the
_bikshu_, never makes mistakes, and performs neatly. Did the Presence
observe how neatly? Within the cotton marking the Brahman came the
hempen thread of the Kshatriya, inside again the woollen strand of the
Vaisya; all three twice-born. But last of all, a strip of cowskin
defiling the whole.'
"'Why cow-skin?' I asked in my ignorance. 'I always thought you held a
cow sacred.'
"Victor Emanuel beamed approval. 'The little Presence is young, but
intelligent. He will doubtless learn much if he questions the right
people judiciously. He will grow wise like the big Presence, who knows
nearly as much as we know about some things--_but not all!_ The cow is
sacred, so the skin telling of the misfortune of the cow is _anathema_.
Yea, 'twas a divine miracle. The money of the pious will flow to make
the holy fat; at least that is what the doctor _sahib_ is thinking.'
"'Don't set up for occult power on the strength of guessing palpable
truths,' replied Taylor; 'that sort of thing does not amuse me; but the
little _sahib_ wants to know how much truth there was in Gopi's story.'
"'Gopi knows,' retorted our friend with a grin. 'The Brahman saith the
boy was gifted to him by a pious woman after the custom of
thanksgiving. Gone five years old, wearing the sacred thread, versed in
simple lore, intelligent, well-formed, as the ritual demands. Gopi
saith the mother, his wife, was a bad walker, even to the length of
public bazaars. Her people sought her for years, but she escaped them
in big towns, and ere they found her she had gained safety for this boy
by palming him off on Sukya. 'Twas easy for her, being a Brahmani. Of
course they made her speak somewhat ere she fulfilled her life, but not
the name of the anchorite she deceived. So Gopi, knowing from the
mother's babbling of this mongrel's blasphemous name, and the vow of
pilgrimage for the expiation of sins, hath come hither, led by the
Spirit, every year. It is a tale of great virtue and edification.'
"'But the boy! the wretched boy?' I asked eagerly. Taylor raised his
eyebrows and watched my reception of the _jog's_ answer with a
half-pitying smile.
"'Perhaps he will die; perhaps not. What does it matter? One born of
such parents is dead to virtue from the beginning, and life without
virtue is not life.'
"'He might try Amar-nath and the remission of sins you believe in so
firmly,' remarked Taylor, with another look at me.
"Victor Emanuel spat freely. 'There is no Amar-nath for such as he, and
the Presence knows that as well as I do. No remission at all, even if
he found the Flower of Forgiveness, as the doctor _sahib_ hopes to do.'
"'Upon my soul,' retorted Taylor impatiently, 'I believe the existence
of the one is about as credible as the other. I shall have to swallow
both if I chance upon either.'
"'That may be; but not for the boy Amra. He will die and be damned in
due course.'
"That seemed to settle the question for others, but I was haunted by
the boy's look when he heard the words, 'Thou art uncleansable for ever
and ever.'
"'After all 'tis only a concentrated form of the feeling we all have at
times,' remarked Taylor drily; 'even I should like to do away with a
portion of my past. Besides, all religions claim more or less a
monopoly of repentance. They are no worse here than at home.'
"We journeyed slowly to Amar-nath, watching the pilgrims pass us by on
the road, but catching them up again each evening after long rambles
over the hills in search of rare plants. It is three days' march, by
rights, to Shisha Nag, or the Leaden Lake, where the pilgrimage begins
in real earnest by the pilgrims, men, women, and children, divesting
themselves of every stitch of raiment, and journeying stark naked
through the snow and ice for two days--coming back, of course, clothed
with righteousness. But Taylor becoming interested over fungi in the
chestnut woods of Chandanwarra, we paused there to hunt up all sorts of
deathly-looking growths due to disease and decay. I was not sorry; for
one pilgrim possessed by frantic haste to shift his sins to some
scapegoat is very much like another pilgrim with the same desire;
besides, I grew tired of Victor Emanuel, who felt the cold extremely,
and was in consequence seldom sober, and extremely loquacious. I
thought I had never seen such a dreary place as Shisha Nag, though the
sun shone brilliantly on its cliffs and glaciers. I think it must have
been the irresponsiveness of the lake itself which deadened its
beauties, for the water, surcharged with gypsum, lay in pale green
stretches, refusing a single reflection of the hills which held it so
carefully.
"The next march was awful; and in more than one place, half hidden by
the flowers forcing their way through the snow, lay the corpses of
pilgrims who had succumbed to the cold and the exposure.
"'Pneumonia in five out of six cases,' remarked Taylor casually. 'If it
were not for the _churrus_ (concoction of hemp) they drink, the
mortality would be fearful. I wonder what Exeter Hall would say to
getting drunk for purposes of devotion?'
"At Punjtarni we met the returning pilgrims; among others Victor, very
sick and sorry for himself physically, but of intolerable moral
strength. He told us, between the intervals of petitions for pills and
potions, that the remaining fourteen miles to the Cave were unusually
difficult, and had been singularly fatal that year. On hearing this,
Taylor, knowing my dislike to horrors, proposed taking a path across
the hills instead of keeping to the orthodox route. Owing to scarcity
of water and fuel, the servants and tents could only go some five miles
farther along the ravine, so this suggestion would involve no change of
plan. He added that there would also be a greater chance of finding
'that blessed anemone.' I don't think I ever saw so much drunkenness or
so much devotion as I saw that evening at Punjtarni. It was hard indeed
to tell where the one began and the other ended; for excitement,
danger, and privation lent their aid to drugs, and a sense of relief to
both. The very cliffs and glaciers resounded with enthusiasm, and I saw
Sukya and Premi taking their part with the rest as if nothing had
happened.
"Taylor and I started alone next morning. We were to make a long round
in search of the Flower of Forgiveness, and come back upon the Cave
towards afternoon. The path, if path it could be called, was fearful.
Taylor, however, was untiring, and at the slightest hint of hope would
strike off up the most break-neck places, leaving me to rejoin him as
best I could. Yet not a trace did we find of the anemone. Taylor grew
fretful, and when we reached the snow slope leading to the Cave, he
declared it would be sheer waste of time for him to go up.
"'Get rid of your sins, if you want to, by all means,' he said; 'I've
seen photographs of the place, and it's a wretched imposture even as a
spectacle. You have only to keep up the snow for a mile and turn to the
left. You'll find me somewhere about these cliffs on your return; and
don't be long, for the going before us is difficult.' So I left him
poking into every crack and cranny.
"I could scarcely make up my mind if I was impressed or disappointed
with the Cave. Its extreme insignificance was, it is true, almost
ludicrous. Save for a patch of red paint and a shockingly bad attempt
at a stone image of Siva's bull, there was nothing to distinguish this
hollow in the rock from a thousand similar ones all over the Himalayas.
But this very insignificance gave mystery to the fact that hundreds of
thousands of the conscience-stricken had found consolation here. '_What
went ye out into the wilderness to see?_' As I stood for an instant at
the entrance before retracing my steps, I could not but think that here
was a wilderness indeed--a wilderness of treacherous snow and icebound
rivers, peaked and piled up tumultuously like frozen waves against the
darkening sky. The memory of Taylor's warning not to be late made me
try what seemed a shorter and easier path than the one by which I had
come; but ere long the usual difficulties of short cuts cropped up, and
I had eventually to limp back to the slope with a badly cut ankle,
which bled profusely despite my rough efforts at bandaging. The loss of
blood was sufficient to make me feel quite sick and faint, so that it
startled me to come suddenly on Taylor sooner than I expected. He was
half kneeling, half sitting on the snow; his coat was off, and his face
bent over something propped against his arm.
"'It's that boy,' he said shortly, as I came up. 'I found him just
after you left, lying here--to rest, he says. It seems he has been
making his way to the Cave ever since that day, without bite or sup, by
the hills,--God knows how,--to avoid being turned back by the others.
And now he is dying, and there's an end of it.'
"'The boy--not Amra!' I cried, bending in my turn.
"Sure enough, on Taylor's arm, with Taylor's coat over his wasted body,
lay the young disciple. His great, luminous eyes looked out of a face
whence even death could not drive the beauty, and his breath came in
laboured gasps.
"'Brandy! I have some here,' I suggested in hot haste, moved to the
idiotic suggestion by that horror of standing helpless which besets us
all in presence of the Destroyer.
"Taylor looked at the boy with a grave smile and shook his head. 'To
begin with, he wouldn't touch it; besides, he is past all that sort of
thing. No one could help him now.' He paused, shifting the weight a
little on his arm.
"'The Presence will grow tired holding me,' gasped the young voice
feebly. 'If the _sahib_ will put a stone under my head and cover me
with some snow, I will be able to crawl on by and by when I am rested.
For it is close--quite close.'
"'Very close,' muttered the doctor under his breath. Suddenly he looked
up at me, saying in a half-apologetic way, 'I was wondering if you and
I couldn't get him up there--to Amar-nath I mean. Life has been hard on
him; he deserves an easy death.'
"'Of course we can,' I cried in a rush of content at the suggestion, as
I hobbled round to get to the other side, and so help the lad to his
legs.
"'Hollo,' asked Taylor, with a quick professional glance, 'what have
you done to your ankle? Sit down and let me overhaul it.'
"In vain I made light of it, in vain I appealed to him. He peremptorily
forbade my stirring for another hour, asserting that I had injured a
small artery, and without caution might find difficulty in reaching the
tents, as it would be impossible for him to help me much on the sort of
ground over which we had to travel.
"'But the boy, Taylor!--the boy!' I pleaded. 'It would be awful to
leave him here.'
"'Who said he was to be left?' retorted the doctor crossly. 'I'm going
to carry him up as soon as I've finished bandaging your leg. Don't be
in such a blessed hurry.'
"'Carry him! You can't do it up that slope, strong as you are,
Taylor--I know you can't.'
"'Can't?' he echoed, as he stood up from his labours. 'Look at him and
say can't again--if you can.'
"I looked and saw that the boy, but half conscious, yet restored to the
memory of his object by the touch of the snow on which Taylor had laid
him while engaged in bandaging my foot, had raised himself painfully on
his hands and knees, and was struggling upwards, blindly, doggedly.
"'Damn it all,' continued the doctor fiercely, 'isn't that sight enough
to haunt a man if he doesn't try? Besides, I may find that precious
flower,--who knows?'
"As he spoke he stooped with the gentleness, not so much of sympathy,
as of long practice in suffering, over the figure which, exhausted by
its brief effort, already lay prostrate on the snow.
"'What is--the Presence--going--to do?' moaned Amra doubtfully, as he
felt the strong arms close round him.
"'You and I are going to find the remission of sins together at
Amar-nath,' replied the Presence with a bitter laugh.
"The boy's head fell back on the doctor's shoulder as if accustomed to
the resting-place. 'Amar-nath!' he murmured. 'Yes! I am Amar-nath.'
"So I sat there helpless, and watched them up the slope. Every slip,
every stumble, seemed as if it were my own. I clenched my hands and set
my teeth as if I too had part in the supreme effort, and when the
straining figure passed out of sight I hid my face and tried not to
think. It was the longest hour I ever spent before Taylor's voice
holloing from the cliff above roused me to the certainty of success.
"'And the boy?' I asked eagerly.
"'Dead by this time, I expect,' replied the doctor shortly. 'Come
on,--there's a good fellow,--we haven't a moment to lose. I must look
again for the flower to-morrow.'
"But letters awaiting our return to camp recalled him to duty on
account of cholera in the regiment; so there was an end of anemone
hunting. The 101st suffered terribly, and Taylor was in consequence
hotter than ever over experiments. The result you know."
"Yes, poor fellow! but the anemone? I don't understand how it came
here."
My friend paused. "That is the odd thing. I was looking after the
funeral and all that, for Taylor and I were great friends--he left me
that herbarium in memory of our time in Cashmere. Well, when I went
over to the house about an hour before to see everything done properly,
his bearer brought me one of those little flat straw baskets the
natives use. It had been left during my absence, he said, by a young
Brahman, who assured him that it contained something which the great
doctor _sahib_ had been very anxious to possess, and which was now sent
by some one to whom he had been very kind.
"'You told him the _sahib_ was dead, I suppose?' I asked.
"'This slave informed him that the master had gained freedom, but he
replied it was no matter, as all his task was this.' On opening the
basket I found a gourd such as the disciples carry round for alms, and
in it, planted among gypsum debris, was that anemone; or rather that is
a part of it, for I put some in Taylor's coffin."
"Ah! I presume the _gosain_--Victor Emanuel, I think you called
him--sent the plant; he knew of the doctor's desire?"
"Perhaps. The bearer said the Brahman was a very handsome boy, very
fair, dressed in the usual black antelope skin of the disciple. It is a
queer story anyhow--is it not?"