By it she gained a privilege greater than her brothers. By its very virginity she became their ancestress, the ancestress of all her race. That voluntary yielding up of sex brought her eternal motherhood, because through her renunciation those heroes had found life everlasting.
Her barren breasts--sucked of no child's lips--had nurtured them--nurtured them all!
Shiv-jee, Râjindar, half a hundred others, were all her children. Aye, it was her hands which had sent little Heera into the wilderness to do his duty. His childish face full of tears of courage was hers!--was hers!
There was no death; nothing but unending life that "cannot slay that is not slain." So to her, as she sate reading the Sacred Book came spirits innumerable, until in the vast multitude of men, her own womanhood was lost.
A low knock came to the door. Holding the light by which she had been reading in her hand, she rose and went toward it.
"Who enters?" she asked, and started at the reply.
"It is I, Birbal. Open, my sister. I come from the King."
He stood within the threshold unfolding the shawl with which he was enveloped, and disclosing his keen face lit by a satirical smile.
"A good password, by all that's holy," he said airily. "Nay! frown not, sister, I am of thy tribe."
"True," she replied gravely. "My father spoke often of Maheshwar Rao"--she gave Birbal's tribal name with intent--"and said that could he but learn not to jest----"