After that. Gobind Lâl became a murderer. His hope died out. Darkness could not approach light.
Then again, that unquenchable, burning thirst to see Bhramar tormented Gobind Lâl year by year, month by month, daily, hourly, at every moment. Who had ever possessed such a treasure? or who had ever lost such an one? Both Bhramar and Gobind Lâl had suffered, but Bhramar was happy compared with Gobind Lâl. His suffering was beyond man's power of endurance. Bhramar had a helper in death. Gobind Lâl had not even that help.
Again night passed, again earth smiled in the sun's light. Gobind Lâl came out of the house. He had slain Rohini with his own hands; he had in effect caused Bhramar's death also with his own hands. With these thoughts in his mind he came out.
I know not how Gobind Lâl had spent that night. It must have been a terrible night to him. On opening the door he encountered Mâdhabi Nâth, who stood gazing into his face—a face which bore the shadow of a disease beyond human remedy.
