A frightful calm now came over me as I returned to my room. There was nothing more to be considered, no doubt to be combated, no questions to be answered. All was decided; his Karma willed it so. By his double treachery his life was plainly forfeit to me and to Angulimala.
So great was this calm that I fell asleep instantly I laid myself down on my couch, as though my whole being were anxiously endeavouring to bridge over the empty hours of waiting.
When it became dark I went to the Terrace; the moon had not yet risen. I had not long to wait; Angulimala's powerful figure swung itself over the parapet and came straight to the bench on which I sat half averted from him.
I did not move and, without raising my eyes from the pattern of the coloured marble tiles, I spoke—
"What thou dost wish to learn, I know. Everything. The hour when he leaves, the strength of his escort, the direction he takes, and the roads and paths over which he goes. Under the influence of his evil Karma, he himself forced his confidence upon me, otherwise I should have known nothing of it, for I would never have drawn it from him by feigned tenderness."
I had well considered these words of mine; for so foolish are we in our pride that even now, when I was making myself the tool of a criminal, it was to me an unendurable thought that I should appear lower in his eyes than I really was.
Not less studied were my next words—
"Of all this, however, thou wilt not hear one syllable unless thou dost first promise that thou wilt only kill but in no wise torture him; and that thou wilt kill only him but not even one of his escort; unless it be necessary in self-defence. I will, however, indicate a spot to thee where thou canst deal him his death-blow when he is absolutely alone and so without any kind of fray. This, therefore, thou must promise me with a solemn oath. Otherwise thou canst kill me, but not one word more shalt thou hear."
"Truly as I have been, to this day, a faithful servant of Kali," replied Angulimala, "so truly will I kill none of his escort and so truly shall he suffer no torture."
"Good," I said, "I will trust thee. Now then, listen, and note every detail exactly. If thou hast accomplices in the town thou wilt have learnt already that preparations are being made for advancing against the robbers to-morrow. That is, however, all empty show to deceive thee. In reality, Satagira, escorted by thirty horsemen, rides from the town by the south gate an hour after midnight, leaves the Sinsapa wood lying to his left, and sweeps out in a somewhat more southerly direction, in order then to move eastward over byways through the hill country."
And I now gave him an absolutely exact description of the neighbourhood, including the narrow ravine through which Satagira would have to pass, and where he could easily and surely be killed.
An oppressive silence followed my words, during which I heard nothing save my own hard breathing. I felt that I had not yet strength to rise and leave the terrace as I had purposed doing.
Finally Angulimala spoke, and the gentle, and even sad, note in his voice surprised me to such a degree that I was almost terrified, and started involuntarily.
"And so it would have happened," said he, "and thou, the tender, gentle wife, who has assuredly never wilfully injured even the meanest of creatures, wouldst now have been in alliance with the vilest of human beings, a wretch whose hands drip blood. Yes, the murder of thy husband would have burdened thy conscience and would now be spinning its black Karma threads on the downward path, on into the infernal world—that is, so it would have been, if thou hadst now been speaking to the robber Angulimala."
I didn't know whether I could believe my ears. To whom else had I spoken then? It was certainly the voice of Angulimala, even if with that wonderful change of tone; and as I turned abruptly round, now thoroughly dismayed, and looked intently at him, it was beyond all doubt the robber-chieftain who stood before me, even if, in his whole bearing, another character seemed to be expressed than that which on the previous day had held me in its fearful thrall.
"But no fear, noble lady," he added, "all this has not happened. Nothing has happened, not any more than if thou hadst addressed thy speech to this tree."
These words were as puzzling to me as those that had preceded them. But so much I understood, that, for some reason, he had given up his plan of vengeance on Satagira.
After I had worked myself up through frightful inner struggles to such an unnatural pitch of crime, this sudden incomprehensible melting away, this ghostlike loss of action, was a disappointment which I could not bear. The unusual strain to which my whole nature had been subjected found vent in a stream of abuse hurled in Angulimala's face. I called him a dishonourable villain, a faithless, empty braggart, a dastard, and much more—the worst names I could think of—for I hoped that, when irritated in this way, the man, notorious throughout India for his violent temper, would, with one blow of his iron fist, stretch me lifeless on the ground.
But when I stopped, more because breath failed me than words, Angulimala answered with a quiet that put me to shame—
"All this and more also have I deserved from thee, and I do not believe that thou wouldst have been able with it so to irritate even the old Angulimala that he would have killed thee—for to accomplish this, is, as I well perceive, thy intention. But even if another had now said this and worse, I would not only have borne it quietly but would indeed have been grateful to him for giving me the opportunity of undergoing a salutary test. Has not the Master himself taught me: 'Like to the Earth, shalt thou exercise evenness of temper. Even as one casts upon the earth that which is clean and that which is unclean, and the earth is neither horrified thereat nor resists—so also shalt thou, like to the earth, exercise evenness of temper.' For thou dost speak, Vasitthi, not with the robber, but with the disciple, Angulimala."
"What kind of disciple? What Master?" I asked, with contemptuous impatience, although the strange speech of this incomprehensible man did not fail to exercise a peculiar, almost a fascinating, effect upon me.
"He whom they call the Perfect One, the Discerner of Men, the Fully-Enlightened One, the Buddha," he answered; "the is the Master. Thou hast assuredly heard of him ere now?"
I shook my head.
"I count myself happy," he exclaimed, "in that I am the first from whose lips thou dost hear the name of the Blessed One. If Angulimala once, as robber, did thee much evil, he has done thee now, as disciple, more of good."
"Who is, then, this Buddha?" I asked again, in the same tone, without wishing to let it be seen how much my sympathy was awakened. "What has he to do with this enigmatical behaviour of thine, and what blessing could it bring me to hear his name?"
"Even to hear the name of him whom they call 'The Welcome One,'" said Angulimala, "is as the first shimmer of light to him who sits in darkness. But I will relate everything to thee—how he met me, and how he changed the current of my life; for certain it is that its happening just this day has not been least on thy account."
In spite of the fierceness which emanated from his whole being, even on the first evening a certain grace of bearing had surprised me in him; how much more striking, however, was the unsought dignity with which he now sat down beside me, like one who feels himself among his equals.