Chapter Thirty One

It need hardly be said that sleep came not to Jagatsingh that night. His bed was as a bed of burning coals; within his breast a fire raged unabated. She who was Tilottama — she at whose death Jagatsingh would have found the world a void — now that very Tilottama had not surrendered her life, and this itself had become his torment.

What was this? Why had Tilottama not died? That form delicate as a flower, that form enveloped in a soft and tender radiance — whithersoever Jagatsingh turned his gaze, he beheld it in the vision of his mind — must that form become the dust of the burning-ground? Across this great and boundless earth, would no trace of it remain? Whenever he thought thus, the tears streamed unchecked from Jagatsingh's eyes; and then in an instant the memory of the vile Katlu Khan's pleasure-house flashed upon his heart like lightning, and he beheld that flower-soft body resting in the embrace of the wicked Pathan — and once more his heart burned with a dreadful fire.

Tilottama was the goddess enshrined within the temple of his heart.

And that Tilottama was now in a Pathan's house!

That Tilottama was now Katlu Khan's concubine!

Could a Rajput still offer worship to such an image?

Was it not consistent with Rajput honour to cast out, with his own hand, an idol so defiled?

That image had taken deep root within Jagatsingh's heart; to uproot it, the very heart that was its soil must be torn asunder. How should he forget that enchanting form for ever and ever? Was it possible? So long as memory endured, so long as a body formed of bone and marrow and blood remained, she would reign there as sovereign of his heart!

Amid such violent and conflicting thoughts, the young prince lost not merely his peace of mind — his very reason began to reel, his memories fell into disorder; even as the night drew toward its close he sat with his head held in both his hands, his brain whirling, all power of reflection gone from him. He had sat so for many a long hour, and his limbs had begun to ache; the intensity of his mental anguish had kindled in his body a fever-heat, and Jagatsingh rose and went to stand beside the window.

A cool summer-night breeze came and touched Jagatsingh's brow. The night was dark; the sky was covered thick with clouds; not a star could be seen — only now and then, through a rift in the drifting cloud, some faint star was barely visible. The distant trees melted together in the darkness and stood against the base of the sky like a wall of shadow; upon the nearer trees, strings of fireflies glimmered like scattered diamond-dust; in the pond that lay before him, the reflections of sky and trees rested in the darkness, dim and indistinct.

In the cool night air that came laden with cloud, some portion of Jagatsingh's bodily fever was eased. He rested his arms upon the window-sill, laid his head upon them, and stood thus. He had been worn out by long sleepless hours and violent suffering; now, beneath the soothing touch of the gentle breeze, his thoughts grew less oppressive, his mind wandered from its fixed object. The blade that had been stabbing his heart all this while was withdrawn, and in its place a duller, less acute despair began to enter. The relinquishing of hope is the greater anguish; but once despair has settled into steadiness, it afflicts one less cruelly. The stroke of the sword is the sharpest agony; the wound that follows is lasting indeed, but not so fierce. Jagatsingh now endured the milder pain of hopelessness. Looking up at the dark, starless sky, he fell to thinking, with tearful eyes, how the sky of his own heart was likewise dark and starless now. All that had been sweet and gentle in the past began to drift through the pathways of memory — his childhood, the joys of his youth — all came back to him; his mind became absorbed in them; gradually he grew more and more absent in thought, his body grew colder and colder; weariness was stealing away his consciousness; leaning upon the window-sill, Jagatsingh fell into a drowse. In that sleep the young prince dreamed — heavy, anguished dreams; his sleeping brow contracted into a frown; his face was distorted by expressions of sharp and bitter pain; his lips trembled and moved; his forehead was beaded with perspiration; his hands clenched themselves into tight fists.

He awoke with a start, and in great agitation began to pace the room; how long he continued to suffer in this manner it is difficult to say with certainty — but when the morning sun had set the ramparts and battlements aglow, Jagatsingh lay stretched upon the floor of his room, without bed or pillow, and had fallen asleep.

Osman came and roused him. When the prince had risen from sleep, Osman paid him his respects and placed a letter in his hand. The prince took the letter but remained silent, gazing at Osman's face. Osman perceived that the prince was not yet fully himself. Understanding, therefore, that no useful conversation was possible at this moment, he said: "Your Highness, I have no curiosity as to why thou hast slept upon the bare floor. I had given my promise to her who sent this letter that I would deliver it to thee; the reason why I did not deliver it until now has passed away — thou hast learnt all. I therefore leave this letter in thy keeping, and thou mayest read it at thy leisure. I shall return this afternoon. If thou shouldst wish to send a reply, I can convey it to the one who wrote it."

So saying, Osman left the letter with the prince and departed.

When the prince sat alone and had fully recovered his composure, he read Bimala's letter from beginning to end, then kindled a fire and cast the letter into it. So long as it burned, he kept his eyes upon it. When the letter was entirely consumed, he said to himself: "The token of remembrance I have flung into the fire and destroyed utterly — yet memory itself burns in my breast — why is it not consumed?"

Jagatsingh then went about his morning observances in due order. When his prayers and devotions were done, he prostrated himself in reverence before his chosen deity; then, with hands folded and eyes raised upward, he said: "O Master! Forsake not thy servant. I will uphold the duty of a warrior; I will do what befits the house of the Kshatriya. I beg the grace of those blessed feet. The concubine of an infidel I will drive from this heart; though my body perish in the doing of it, I shall find thee at my last hour. I am doing what lies within a man's power; I shall do what is a man's duty. Look, O Master — thou art the knower of all hearts, look deep into my inmost being and see — I no longer seek Tilottama's love, I no longer desire even to behold her; only the memory of former days burns unceasingly at my heart. I have cast away desire — will not the memory likewise depart? O Master, I beg the grace of those feet. For else the torment of remembrance is not to be borne."

The idol was immersed.

What dreams, then, was Tilottama dreaming upon her bed of dust? In this deep darkness, the one star upon which she had fixed her eyes would bestow its rays upon her no more. In this fierce storm, the creeper to which she had bound her life had snapped; the raft upon which she had pressed her breast to cross the ocean had gone down beneath the waves.