He went out into the compound as often as he dared. It did not do to spend too much time in the open, since it had not been his habit. It might be remarked upon. He noted the figures beyond the wall, and knew that he was being watched with the same vigilance as was shown yesterday and the day before. Frequently his eye turned towards the blue-green mountain mass with its dark-grey rocks and heavy forest. Then he looked back at the familiar building, the home of his ancestors, and once the hot unshed tears made his eyes smart at the thought of leaving it. The blood rushed to his head and back again to his heart with a violence that almost threw him off his mental balance. Could he muster up strength enough to abandon all that the home meant? Would he have the courage when the moment came to sever the ties that bound him to father, mother, wife—no, not wife! She and the child would follow by and by. He refused to entertain any doubt on the subject.
All the same, he was conscious of a shudder, the kind of inward quake experienced by the soldier at the sound of the first bullet whizzing over his head on the battlefield. He checked it at once and took a fresh grip of himself, sternly and resolutely shutting down sentiment and its companion emotion.
"I can't go back! I can't go back! There is nothing but hideous darkness behind me. I must go forward. The light is in front! Ah! dear Christ, the Son of God! lead me forward in safety! Lead me on!"
The mental disturbance passed as suddenly as it had overwhelmed him. Once more he was conscious of a great peace. It was as though he had entered that wonderful temple of God standing in the heart of London, where the strains of the organ rise above the roar of the streets, and where a man may feel that he is in the presence of the living God of Love, the Father of the Universe.
The sun dropped behind a shoulder of the mountain, and the sky broke into a glory of many colours. He watched it until it faded. Suddenly he was startled by a sound. As the last ray left the top of the hill and the forest mantled into a sombre green, a wail arose in the women's rooms. It was followed by the beat of a tomtom.
He stood at the entrance of the yard and listened. As the light faded the wailing increased. He could distinguish by the sound of the voices a movement. They were leaving the house for the garden.
Yes! He knew the ritual of old! Some one was dying, and death was close at hand. The man or woman—he started as the thought struck him that it might be his father—had been carried out of the house and laid upon mother earth to breathe his last.
How well he remembered the ceremonies with which death was greeted; the lifting with tender care of the dying from the cot or mat and the gentle placing of the gasping patient upon the smooth ground. Close by grew the sacred tulsi, without which no spirit could take its flight in peace. He could picture his mother bending over the plant to gather a sprig. He fancied he could smell the aromatic scent of the broken stalk of sweet basil as she placed the sprig above the head of the sufferer—perhaps touching the dry lips with it, leading as she did so the wail of mourning.
The chorus of women's voices swelled on the evening air; the whole household must be joining in. Who could it be? The pariah had said nothing of any illness in the family. If it had been his father the man would have mentioned it. He concluded that it must be one of the many relatives who lived in the house. Some of them had joined the family during his absence in England; others had grown out of knowledge; it was useless for him to conjecture.
The presence of death is always a solemn moment, even though the person may not be known. Ananda remained standing by the entrance of the yard, his eyes turned towards the west, but his ears bent to catch every sound that came from the house. Each change in the note of grief spoke eloquently of the ebbing life, and he listened for the final cries that would betoken the drawing of the last breath.