Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swan
That rests upon my bosom as a lake,
There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!
And yet arise to Victory and Fame
Sun of the Chanhans! Who has drunk so deep
Of glory and of pleasure as my lord!
And yet the destiny of all is Death.
Yea! even of the Gods! And to die well
Is Life immortal. Therefore draw your sword,
Smite down the Foes of Hind. Think not of Self,
The garment of this Life is frayed and worn--
Think not of me--we Twain shall be as One
Hereafter and for ever. Go! my King.
We Twain shall be as One, as One!
The nicest musical ear might have detected small change in Deena's accompaniment, but Âtma professed herself satisfied.
"And now," asked the old go-between, as she leant back wearily, "What next?"
"Nothing," she answered. "One is enough for a day. Thou canst come to-morrow--for reward or punishment."
"And the mistress hath no orders, no message?" he asked, winking at the duenna elaborately.
"Nothing; save to get thee gone as quick as may be. See him out, woman!"
That faint tremor of voice only betrayed that her nerves were almost at breaking point; that she felt the need of solitude for a second.
When it came she passed swiftly to the sword of her fathers and kissed it passionately. Then flinging her arms on the parapet she gazed out over the plain scarce seeing the pageantry of sunset that was being enacted on the distant horizon.
What had she written on that scrap of paper? It had necessarily to be guarded--but had she said enough?