Chapter Thirty One

The moon went down. The whole round of the world was filled with darkness. The Kapalik led Kapalkundala unto the place where he had set his altar of worship. It was a broad sandy flat upon the bank of the Ganga. Over against it lay a second tract of sand, yet broader; and upon that further sand was the burning-ground. Between the two sands, at the time of the flood-tide, a little water remaineth; at the ebb there is none. Now the tide was out. Of the cremation ground, that face which was turned toward the Ganga stood exceeding high; he that would go down to the water must fall sheer from the brink into the deep below. Moreover the unceasing buffetings of the wind-driven waves had worn away the foot of the bank, so that ever and anon great clods of earth, loosed from their place, fell crashing into the deep flood. Upon the place of worship there was no lamp; only upon some pieces of wood the fire was burning, and by that light the burning-ground, dimly seen, looked the more terrible. Hard by were arrayed all the appointments of worship, of the burnt offering, of the sacrifice. The vast bosom of the river lay outspread in the darkness. The wind of the month of Chaitra rushed unchecked over the heart of the Ganga, and thereby the noise of the breaking of the waves filled the firmament. Upon the burning-ground the corpse-feeding beasts now and again uttered their harsh cry.

The Kapalik, having set Nabakumar and Kapalkundala upon seats of kusha-grass in a fitting place, began the worship according to the ordinance of the tantras. At the proper season he gave commandment unto Nabakumar that he should bathe Kapalkundala and bring her thither. Nabakumar, taking Kapalkundala by the hand, led her across the burning-ground that he might bathe her. Beneath their feet the bones cracked. By the stroke of Nabakumar's foot a pitcher of the cremation-ground, filled with water, was broken to pieces. Hard by lay a corpse — some hapless one whom none had taken pains to burn. The feet of both touched it; Kapalkundala went round about it, but Nabakumar trod it underfoot as he passed. On every side the corpse-eating beasts went roaming about; at the coming of the two human creatures they raised loud cries, some made as though they would attack, others fled with sounding feet. Kapalkundala saw that the hand of Nabakumar was trembling; she herself was fearless and unshaken.

Kapalkundala asked, "Art thou afraid?"

The fume of the wine in Nabakumar was little by little abating. In a voice exceeding grave Nabakumar made answer,

"Afraid, Mrinmayi? Not so."

Kapalkundala asked, "Wherefore then dost thou tremble?"

The tone wherein Kapalkundala put this question could come only from the throat of a woman. Only when a woman is melted with another's grief can such a voice come from a woman's throat. Who could have known that, at the hour of her doom, come into the burning-ground, such a voice should issue from Kapalkundala's lips?

Nabakumar said, "Not in fear. I tremble in wrath, because I cannot weep."

Kapalkundala asked, "Why shouldst thou weep?"

Again that same voice!

Nabakumar said, "Why should I weep? What wouldst thou know of it, Mrinmayi? Thou hast never been driven mad at the sight of a beauty —" and as he spake, Nabakumar's voice was choked with anguish. "Thou hast never come of thine own will to the burning-ground, to tear out thine own heart with thine own hands and cast it down upon the pyre." Saying this, on a sudden Nabakumar cried out aloud, and weeping flung himself down at Kapalkundala's feet.

"Mrinmayi! — Kapalkundala! Save me. I am rolling here at thy feet — say but once that thou art no faithless one — say but once, and I will take thee to my bosom and bear thee home."

Kapalkundala, taking him by the hand, lifted Nabakumar up, and in a low voice said, "Thou never didst ask me!"

When these words were spoken, the two had come to the very edge of the water; Kapalkundala stood foremost, her back to the river, with but a single pace behind her till the water. Now the flood-tide was beginning, and Kapalkundala was standing upon a jutting clod of the bank. She answered, "Thou never didst ask me!"

Nabakumar, as one distraught, cried, "I have lost my senses, what should I ask? Speak — Mrinmayi! speak — speak — speak — save me. Let us go home."

Kapalkundala said, "What thou hast asked, that will I tell thee. She whom thou sawest this day — she was Padmavati. I am no faithless one. This I tell thee in very truth. Yet home will I go no more. I am come to lay down this body at the feet of Bhavani — and that, of a surety, will I do. Go thou home. I shall die. Weep not for me."

"Nay — Mrinmayi! — nay! —" with such loud cry did Nabakumar stretch forth his arms to clasp Kapalkundala to his breast. But Kapalkundala he found no more. A vast wave, driven by the Chaitra wind, came rushing in, and smote upon the foot of the bank just where Kapalkundala was standing; and at the stroke a great mass of the bank, with Kapalkundala upon it, with a terrible sound was broken away and fell into the river's current. Nabakumar heard the noise of the breaking of the bank; he saw that Kapalkundala was vanished from his sight. Straightway he leapt after her into the water. Nabakumar was not altogether unable to swim. For some space he swam, searching for Kapalkundala. He found her not, neither did he himself rise again.

Within that endless flood of the Ganga, tossed by the spring wind upon the heaving rows of the waves — whither went Kapalkundala and Nabakumar?

(The End)