Chapter Twenty Four

That this region of Saptagram was wooded, hath already been in some measure related. At no great distance from the village lay a dense forest. Kapalkundala, alone, set forth along a narrow forest path in quest of healing herbs. The night was sweet, utterly void of every sound. Through the spring-tide heavens the cool-rayed moon was silently crossing the white drifting cloud-fragments; below, upon the earth, the wild trees and the creepers reposed as silently beneath the moon's cool beams, and silently the leaves of the trees returned that light. Silently, amid the bush and bough, the white blossoms had opened and remained so. Beast and bird alike were silent. Only, now and again, the broken slumber of some bird and the flutter of its wing; here and there the falling of a dry leaf; here and there, amid the dry leaves underfoot, the faint stir of some serpentine creature in motion; here and there the bark of a far-off hound. Nor yet was it that no breeze stirred at all; the body-soothing breeze of the season of honey moved most softly; a wind altogether without sound; by which alone the topmost leaves of the trees were swayed; by which alone the dark creepers, bowed almost to the earth, gently rocked; by which alone the little white cloudlets, faring through the blue, slowly drifted on. By which alone, in like manner, a faint memory of former happiness was lightly stirred in the heart.

Such old memories were waking in Kapalkundala. The salt-laden breeze of the malaya that had played among her long tresses upon the crest of the sand-dune came back to mind; she gazed upward at the pure blue infinity of the heavens, and the sea—itself the very image of that pure blue infinity—came back to mind. Lost in the contemplation of these former things, Kapalkundala walked on, abstracted.

Walking thus absently, whither and to what end she went, Kapalkundala did not consider. The path along which she was passing grew by degrees impassable; the forest waxed denser; overhead, through the interlacing of the boughs, the moonlight was well-nigh shut out; by degrees the path itself was no longer to be seen. Roused by the failure of the way, Kapalkundala awoke from her musings. Casting her eyes hither and thither, she beheld a light burning amid that deep forest. Lutfunnisa also, in former time, had beheld this same light. By long habit Kapalkundala was at such hours without fear, yet full of curiosity. Softly she drew toward that lamp's brightness. She saw that where the light burned there was no one; but at no great distance from it, hid from the eye by the thickness of the wood, stood a ruined house. The house was of brick, yet very small, very mean, having but a single chamber. From that chamber the sound of human speech issued forth. With soundless step Kapalkundala drew near the dwelling. As soon as she approached, it seemed to her that two persons were in cautious converse. At first she could understand nothing of what was said. But presently, the ear sharpening by effort, she heard speech after this manner.

One was saying, "My desire is for death; if that be not thy mind, I will not aid thee, nor do thou aid me."

The other replied, "Neither do I wish him well; yet if his banishment for life suffice, to that I consent. But from me no design of murder shall come; rather I will set myself against it."

The first speaker said, "Thou art a very simpleton, unknowing. Some little wisdom let me give thee. Listen with thy whole mind. A matter most secret I will tell; go round about and look once on every side, for it seems to me I hear the breath of man."

In very truth Kapalkundala, that she might the better hear the discourse, was standing very close against the wall of the chamber. And by reason of her exceeding eagerness and her dread, her breath came thick and heavy.

At the words of his companion, one of those within the house came forth, and coming forth saw Kapalkundala. Kapalkundala also, in the clear moonlight, beheld the form of the stranger distinctly. Whether she should be afraid or glad she could not determine. She saw that the new-comer was in the guise of a Brahmin; clad in a plain dhoti; the body well covered by an upper cloth. The young Brahmin was of most tender years; upon his countenance was no mark of age whatsoever. The face was passing fair, fair as the face of a beautiful woman, yet endowed with such pride and fire of spirit as is rare in womankind. His hair was not, as is usual with men, the mere remnant left by the barber's labour; like a woman's, it lay uncut, half-hidden beneath the upper cloth, falling now upon back and shoulder, now upon arm, and sometimes upon the breast. The forehead was broad, somewhat swollen, with a single vein showing in the midst. The two eyes were charged with the lustre of lightning. In his hand was a long sword, naked of sheath. Yet through all this beauty there showed forth a certain terrible aspect. Upon that golden complexion lay, as it were, the shadow of some fell desire. At that side-long glance, which seemed to search even to the inmost soul, Kapalkundala was seized with fear.

For some moments either gazed upon the other. Kapalkundala first cast down her lashes. When Kapalkundala had cast down her lashes, the stranger questioned her, saying, "Who art thou?"

Had this question been put to Kapalkundala a year before, in the sandy forest of Hijli, she would on the instant have given a fitting answer. But now she had become in some measure the housewife by nature, and could not at once make reply. The Brahmin-clad youth, beholding Kapalkundala silent, said with gravity, "Kapalkundala! Wherefore art thou come at night into this dense forest?"

To hear her own name upon the lips of an unknown stranger of the night astonished Kapalkundala, and not a little did it affright her also. Therefore no answer came forth at once from her mouth.

He of the Brahmin's guise asked again, "Hast thou heard our discourse?"

On a sudden Kapalkundala recovered the power of speech. Making no answer, she said, "That same do I ask of thee. Within this forest, what evil counsel were ye twain holding at this hour of midnight?"

He of the Brahmin's guise stood a while silent, sunk in thought. As though some new device for the gaining of his end had come of a sudden into his mind, he took Kapalkundala by the hand, and so holding her, began to lead her some little distance away from the ruined house. In great anger Kapalkundala plucked her hand free. Then in the lowest voice the stranger spoke close at her ear, "Why this disquiet? I am no man."

Yet more was Kapalkundala amazed. Of these words she gave some credit, yet not full credit. She followed the disguised one. Going to a spot hidden from the ruined house, the stranger said, whispering close at her ear, "That evil counsel which we were holding—wouldst thou hear it? It concerneth thee thyself."

Mightily did Kapalkundala's eagerness grow. "I will hear," said she.

The disguised one answered, "Then, until I come again, tarry thou here in this place."

So saying, the disguised one returned to the ruined house, and Kapalkundala sat there awhile. Yet from what she had seen and heard a certain fear had been born in her. Now, as she sat alone in the dark forest, her unease began to grow. Especially, with what design this disguised one had set her there and gone, who could tell? Perchance, finding the opportunity, the stranger had set her there only to accomplish some evil purpose. Meanwhile, the return of him of the Brahmin's guise tarried long. Kapalkundala could sit no more. Rising, with swift step she set forth toward home.

By this time the heavens were growing black with thick gathering cloud; the little light that lay upon the forest floor was vanishing also. Kapalkundala could brook not a moment's further delay. With quick foot she came forth from out the wood. As she came, she seemed to hear behind her the footfall of another. But turning her face, in the darkness she could discern nothing. Kapalkundala thought that it was the Brahmin-clad one following at her back. Leaving the forest, she came out upon the narrow woodland path before described. There the darkness was not so deep; were any man within the eye's reach he might be seen. Yet nothing was to be seen. Therefore she went on with hasty step. But again she heard plainly the sound of a human tread. The sky grew more terrible with the deepening blue-black storm-cloud. Kapalkundala went on yet more swiftly. The house was not far, yet ere she could reach the house a fierce storm of wind and rain broke with a dreadful roar. Kapalkundala began to run. He who came behind, by the sound he made, seemed also to run. Before the house came within view, the fierce storm-rain swept across over Kapalkundala's head. Heavy and deep grew the rolling of the thunder, and the crash of the bolts; thick flashed the lightnings. In torrents the rain came down. By some means Kapalkundala preserved herself and gained the house. Crossing the courtyard, she stepped within the chamber. The door had been left open for her. To shut the door she turned her face again toward the courtyard. It seemed to her that upon the courtyard ground a tall man was standing. At that moment the lightning flashed once. By that one flash she knew him. It was that same Kapalik who dwelt by the shore of the sea.