claimed my mischievous friend—"that is, if her flower-like body is to blossom in harmony with her love. I assure you, only such scarlet flowers as that one which friend Kamanita has just concealed in his robe, should be used. For it is written in the golden Book of Love: 'Saffron yellow affection it is called, when it attracts attention, indeed, but, notwithstanding, later fades away; scarlet, however, when it does not later fade but becomes only too apparent.'"
At the same time he and Medini laughed in their merry, confidential way.
Vasitthi, however answered gravely, though with her sweet smile, and gently but firmly pressed my hand—
"Thou dost mistake, dear Somadatta! My love has the colour of no flower. For I have heard it said that the colour of the truest love is not red but black—black as Çiva's throat became when the god swallowed the poison which would otherwise have destroyed all created beings. And so it must ever be. True love must be able to withstand the poison of life, and must be willing to taste the bitterest, in order that the loved one may be spared. And from that bitterest it will assuredly prefer to choose its colour, rather than from any pleasures, however dazzling."
In such wise spoke my beloved Vasitthi, that night under the sorrowless trees.
