6
THE FUGITIVE
She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar, as she walked away.
The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it already belonged to the past.
The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the lane.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,—for I love the look of this land.
The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark water.
Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the lane littered with leaves.
