Chapter Five

Rising at dawn, Nabakumar at once busied himself with thoughts of returning home; the neighbourhood of this Kapalik seemed to him, by every reckoning, ill-omened. Yet for the present, how was he to issue forth from this pathless wood? And how, even were he free of it, was he to find the road that led to his own dwelling? The Kapalik must surely know the path; if asked, would he not point the way? Moreover, so far as could be discerned, the Kapalik had shewn no token of menace towards him — why then should he stand in dread? On the other hand, the Kapalik had charged him not to quit the hut till their next meeting, and to disobey was to court his wrath. Nabakumar had heard it told that Kapaliks could, by virtue of their incantations, accomplish that which lay beyond the reach of mortal power — and for this cause it were unwise to cross their will. Weighing these considerations, Nabakumar resolved, for the time, to keep within the hut.

But as the hours wore on into afternoon, still the Kapalik did not return. Last night's fast, and the day's continued hunger, sharpened his craving to a keen edge. The few fruits and roots that the hut had held were all consumed the night before — now, unless he ventured abroad in search of provender, he must perish for very want. While yet some daylight remained, hunger drove Nabakumar out to seek what fruits the wilderness afforded.

In his quest he ranged about the sand-hillocks that lay near at hand. From the few trees that take root upon such barren sand, he tasted such fruit as they bore, and found that one tree yielded a fruit very like an almond, and as sweet to the taste. With these he stayed his hunger.

The line of sand-dunes whereof we speak was of no great breadth, and Nabakumar, after a brief walking, had passed beyond them. He then came into a thick, sandless wood. They who have, even for an hour, wandered through an unfamiliar forest will know how soon, in such a pathless place, one loses one's bearings. So it now fell out with Nabakumar. Having gone some distance, he could no longer tell by which way he had quitted the hermitage. A deep murmuring of waters fell upon his ear; this, he understood, was the roar of the sea. A little while, and breaking suddenly forth from the wood, he beheld the ocean stretched before him. The endless azure expanse spread out under his eyes, and his heart was overflowed with a strange rapture. He went and sate down upon the sandy shore. Foaming, blue, and boundless was the sea. On either hand, as far as the eye could reach, ran the white line of foam thrown up by breaking surges; like a heaped garland of pure blossoms woven together, that white foam-line lay upon the golden sands — a meet ornament for the woodland-tressed Earth. Upon the blue waters, in a thousand places, the white-crested waves were breaking. If ever such a wind were to blow as should pluck the stars in thousands from their stations and set them rocking upon the azure firmament, then only might one have an image of the leaping of those sea-waves. And now the soft beams of the westering sun made one tract of the blue water glow like molten gold. Far away, the vessel of some European merchant-folk, with white wings outspread, like a great sea-bird floated upon the bosom of the deep.

How long Nabakumar sate there upon the shore, gazing with rapt mind upon the beauty of the deep, he himself, in that hour, could not have told. At length the dusk came suddenly down and settled upon the dark waters. Then Nabakumar bethought himself that he must now find his way back to the hermitage. With a deep sigh he rose. Why he sighed I cannot say — what bygone happiness was then waking in his heart, who shall tell? Rising, he turned him to the sea. No sooner had he turned than he beheld — a wondrous figure! There upon the deep-voiced ocean's shore, upon the sands, in the dim twilight, stood a woman of marvellous beauty! Her hair — unbraided, twining, gathered in great masses, falling to her very ankles; and amid that hair, the jewel of her form: it was as though a painting were set upon a painted canvas. The thick clusters of her tresses suffered not her face to be fully seen — yet through them it shone, like the moon's ray escaping from a parted cloud. The glance of her great eyes was very soft, very grave, yet luminous; that glance shone with a tender brightness, like the line of moonlight that plays upon the bosom of the sea. Her abundant hair veiled her shoulders and both her arms. The shoulders were quite hidden; only the unsullied grace of the arms shewed somewhat through. Her form was wholly without ornament. There was in that figure a witching power that no words can compass. The half-moon's silver tint upon her, the deep-black wealth of her tresses; how, in their nearness, hue and hair alike came into a richer flowering — that cannot be felt unless one have seen it there, upon the shore of the deep-voiced sea, in the falling dusk.

Beholding suddenly, in this wild place, a figure as of a goddess, Nabakumar stood as one turned to stone. His power of speech failed him; mute, he gazed. The woman also, motionless, with unwinking eyes, fixed her steady gaze upon Nabakumar's face. The difference between them was this: Nabakumar's look was as of one struck with amazement, while in hers there was no such token — though there did appear in it a marked disquiet.

Then, upon that lonely sea-shore, the two stood thus, regarding each other for a great while. After long, the voice of the maiden was heard. Very softly she spake: "Traveller, hast thou lost thy way?"

At those tones Nabakumar's heart-strings rang as a lute newly struck. The cords of that strange instrument, the heart, are at times so out of all accord that, strive as one may, they will not be brought into tune together. Yet at a single word, at a single note born of a woman's throat, they fall into their proper measure. All becomes harmony. From that hour the journey of life seems but one stream of sweet music. Even such was the sound that rang in Nabakumar's ear.

"Traveller, hast thou lost thy way?" — the words entered his ear. What they meant, or what answer he should make, his mind could not compass. The sound seemed to go quivering through the air with a tremor of joy; as though it floated upon the wind; as though it rustled in the leaves of the trees. Fair was the woman, and fair was the sound; in the strings of his heart the harmonies of beauty came together.

The woman, receiving no answer, said: "Come." So saying, the maiden moved on; her footfall scarce to be marked. As floats a white cloud, driven by the soft breath of spring, so, with steps that left no print, she went; and Nabakumar followed her, like a wooden puppet drawn by some hidden cord. At one spot they must needs round a little thicket, and as she passed beyond it he could no longer see her. When he too came past the wood, he saw the hut before him.