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.