In the evening he went back aimlessly to the boat. There on the bed lay an anklet. He clutched it, and pressed it to his heart til it bruised him. He fell prone upon the blue mantle left lying in a heap in the corner, hid his face in its folds, and from its silken touch and evasive fragrance struggled to absorb into his being the memory of a dear living body.
The night shook with a tense and tingling silence. The moon disappeared behind the trees. Vajrasen stood up, and stretched out his arms towards the woods, and called: ‘Come, my love, come.’
Suddenly a figure came out of the darkness, and stood on the brink of the water.
‘Come, love, come,’
‘I have come, my beloved. Your dear hands failed to kill me. It is my doom to live.’
Shyama came, and stood before the youth. He looked at her face, he moved a step to take her in his arms—then thrust her away with both hands, and cried: ‘Why, oh why did you come back?’
He shut his eyes, turning his face, and said: ‘Go, go; leave me.’
For a minute the woman stood silent before
