Chapter Thirty Four

When Bimala had departed, Tilottama sat alone within the chamber, and the thoughts that occupied her mind were at once a source of joy and of sorrow. The prospect of a speedy deliverance from the cage of that wicked man recurred to her again and again; yet this alone was not all — that Bimala cherished her with a love surpassing life itself, and that through Bimala alone the means of her rescue had been contrived, this reflection turned in her mind repeatedly and made her doubly glad. Then again she bethought herself: "But if I am freed, whither shall I go? Is my father's house still mine?" And Tilottama wept once more. When all her other thoughts were weighed against it, there arose yet another thought, burning within her like a flame — "Is the Prince yet in safety? Where is he? In what condition? Is he a prisoner?" As these questions pressed upon her, Tilottama's eyes grew dim with tears. "Alas, ill fate! The Prince lies a prisoner for my sake alone. Could I lay down my life at his feet, would even that atone for it? What can I do for him?" Then she asked herself: "Is he in the dungeon? What manner of dungeon can it be? Can none go thither? What does he think of, sitting in that prison? Does the name of Tilottama come to his mind? How could it not? I am the very root of all his torment! Who knows how bitterly he inwardly reviles me?" Then she thought again: "Nay — why do I think so! Would he ever revile any one? No; yet there is this fear — what if he hath utterly forgotten me? Or what if, knowing that I have dwelt within a Mussulman's house, he recoil from me in disgust and suffer me no longer a place in his heart?" Then once more: "No, no — why should he do so? He is a prisoner within the fortress as I am a prisoner; we are alike captive — why then should he despise me? And yet if he should, I will fall at his feet and make him understand. Will he not listen? He must. And if he will not, I shall yield up my life before his very eyes. In olden days a woman proved herself by fire; in this fallen age that may not be — no matter, I shall cast myself into the flame before him!" And then: "But when shall I behold him? How is he ever to be freed? What is gained by my own release alone? Where did my step-mother come by this ring? Is there not some device for his deliverance thereby? Could not this ring be sent to him? Who is it that will come to fetch me? Might he not find some means? Well, I shall ask him — hear what he says. Can I not obtain even one meeting?" And then: "But how could I so much as seek a meeting? And if we met, what could I say to him? With what words could I quench this inward burning?"

Thus Tilottama's thoughts turned without ceasing.

A maidservant entered the chamber. Tilottama asked her: "How far is the night spent?"

The girl replied: "The second watch is past." Tilottama waited for the maid to withdraw. The maid, having finished her errand, departed; and Tilottama, taking the ring that Bimala had given her, set forth from the chamber. Then fear arose again in her heart. Her feet trembled, her heart trembled, her lips grew dry; she moved one step forward and one step back. At length, summoning courage, she went as far as the entrance to the inner apartments. The household attendants — eunuchs, Abyssinian slaves, and the rest — were all given over to revelry; none observed her, and if any looked they paid her no heed. Yet it seemed to Tilottama that every eye was fixed upon her. By some effort she reached the doorway of the zenana. There the guards themselves were lost in merriment — some slept, some though waking were as senseless, some half-conscious. None regarded her. A single figure stood at the gate, dressed in a sentry's garb. He, seeing Tilottama, said: "Hast thou the ring upon thy hand?"

Tilottama, trembling, displayed the ring that Bimala had given her. The man in the sentry's guise examined it with care, then showed her in turn the ring upon his own finger, and said: "Come with me; have no fear."

Tilottama followed the guard with a fluttering heart. As the sentries at the inner gate had been negligent, so were the guards everywhere; and this night in particular every door stood unbarred, and none spoke a word. The guard conducted Tilottama through many gates, many passages, many courtyards, and at last, arriving at the outer postern of the fort, said: "Whither dost thou wish to go now? Command me, and I will take thee thither."

Tilottama could not recall what Bimala had instructed her. Her first thought was of Jagatsingh. She wished to say to the guard: "Take me where the Prince is." But that old adversary, Shame, came and stood in her way. The words died upon her lips. The guard asked again: "Where shall I take thee?"

Tilottama could utter nothing; she seemed bereft of sense, her heart beating of its own accord. Her eyes could not see, her ears could not hear; what words came from her mouth she herself knew not — but into the guard's ear there passed, half-breathed, the syllables: "Jagatsingh."

The guard said: "Jagatsingh is now confined in the prison; that is a place where none may enter freely. Yet such are my orders — that whithersoever thou wishest to go, I am to bring thee. Come."

The guard re-entered the fort. Tilottama, not knowing what she was doing nor whither she was going, turned and followed him like a figure moved by springs; and in that same dazed state she walked on at his side. When the guard came to the door of the prison, he found that whereas elsewhere the sentries had grown lax in their pleasure and neglected their duties, here every man was at his post and vigilant. He asked one of them: "In which place is the Prince confined?" The man pointed out the spot with his finger. The ring-bearer asked the prison warder: "Is the prisoner now asleep or waking?" The warder went to the cell door and, returning, said: "I have had answer from the prisoner — he is awake."

The ring-bearer said to the warder: "Open the door of that cell for me; this woman comes to see him."

The warder exclaimed in astonishment: "What is this! There is no such order; dost thou not know it?"

The ring-bearer showed the warder Osman's token-ring. The warder immediately bowed his head and unbarred the cell door.

The Prince was lying upon a plain wooden cot within the cell. At the sound of the door being opened he looked towards it with curiosity. Tilottama came as far as the outer side of the door and could advance no further. Again her feet would not move; she stood gripping the door-post, her head bent low.

The ring-bearer, seeing Tilottama unwilling to enter, said: "What ails thee? Why dost thou linger here?" Still Tilottama's feet refused to stir.

The guard spoke again: "If thou wilt not go in, then return. This is no place to stand loitering."

Tilottama made as if to turn back. But her feet would not move in that direction either. What was she to do! The guard grew impatient. And while she pondered, without knowing it herself, Tilottama's feet moved forward of their own accord. She entered the cell.

No sooner had she crossed the threshold and beheld the Prince than all power of motion forsook her again. She stood once more against the wall beside the door, head bowed low.

The Prince at first did not recognise Tilottama. Seeing a woman, he was surprised. He was further astonished to see her standing with her face averted, clinging to the wall, unwilling to approach. He rose from the cot and came towards the door. He looked closely — and knew her.

For the space of a twinkling their eyes met. At that instant Tilottama's gaze dropped to the earth; but her body swayed slightly forward, as though she were about to fall at the Prince's feet.

The Prince stepped a little back; and at that moment Tilottama's frame stiffened as if enchanted and stood still. The momentary trembling of her heart dried up in the same instant. The Prince spoke: "Birendrasingh's daughter?"

The words went through Tilottama's heart like a lance. "Birendrasingh's daughter?" Was this the greeting for such a moment? Had Jagatsingh forgotten even Tilottama's name? Both were silent for a little while. Then the Prince spoke once more: "To what purpose art thou come hither?"

"To what purpose art thou come hither!" What a question! Tilottama's head began to swim; all around her — the cell, the cot, the lamp, the walls — seemed to whirl and revolve; she leaned her head against the wall for support and stood there.

The Prince waited long in expectation of an answer; but who was there to answer? Seeing no answer was to be had, he said: "Thou art in distress — go back; forget what is past."

Tilottama's bewilderment left her no more. Like a creeper suddenly loosed from its tree, she fell upon the ground.