And I said in a whisper: O Moony-Crested, be not angry: for surely I was thy worshipper of old, in some forgotten former birth. And even now, is there among thy dusky millions, even one, who has so sincere a regard for thy dead divinity, and for that of thy delicious little snowy bride, as I? And at least I worship with true devotion the digit of the moon, that shines in thy tawny tangled hair.
So I made peace with those old ghosts, and we sat together in the darkness, and their Lord put a thought into my heart, as I gazed at him, while Bombay seemed to have faded away into another world.
And then, after a while, I got up: and I bowed to my Companions, and went away. The wind had dropped, and blew us gently home. Night had fallen, before we reached the quay: lights and shadows came and went on the quiet water, dimpling round the tired boat. I stepped out, and disappeared in the motley crowd of English ladies, native coolies, Christians, pagans, Musulmans, Parsees, negroes, Arab horse-dealers, British sailors, and all the other national ingredients that it takes to make Bombay.
MAHABLESHWAR,
May, 1909.
[[1]] There is yet a third application, to the book itself, indicative of the modesty of the author, with respect to the merits of his production.
[[2]] The ordinary Sanskrit term for woman is the exact equivalent, and may possibly be the origin, of this mediæval label, in which we detect homage and fear lurking under the disparagement.
[[3]] As I subsequently gathered from my friend, the gallant officer in control, I ought to have been shot, hanged, or otherwise destroyed, for being there at all.
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