The day waned, and it darkened. The breeze died away. The crescent moon glimmered feebly at the edge of the steel-black water.
Shyama sat in the dark, resting her head on the youth’s shoulder. Her hair fell loose on his arms.
‘What I did for you was hard, beloved,’ she said in a faint whisper, ‘but it is harder to tell you. I shall tell it in a few words. It was the love-sick boy Uttiya who took your place, charging himself with the theft, and making me a present of his life. My greatest sin has been committed for the love of you, my best beloved.’
While she spoke the crescent moon had set. The stillness of the forest was heavy with the sleep of countless birds.
Slowly the youth’s arm slipped from the woman’s waist. Silence round them became hard and cold as stone.
Suddenly the woman fell at his feet, and clung to his knee crying: ‘Forgive me, my love. Leave it to my God to punish me for my sin.’
Snatching his feet away, Vajrasen hoarsely cried: ‘That my life should be bought by the price of a sin! That every breath of mine should be accursed!’
He stood up, and leapt from the boat on the
