Then, after all the ceremonies were completed, and Prem's beauty lay swathed awaiting sunset for its burning, she had sat on one side of his low bier, while Veru sat on the other, and the wail had risen piercingly--
"Naked he came, naked he has gone; this empty dwelling-house belongs neither to you nor to me."
There had been a menace in her voice, high-pitched, clear, almost impassive, while Veru's had been broken by sobs.
So now that frail weakling was asleep, wearied out by her woe, while Sarsuti sat where the bier had been, still in all the glory of her wifely raiment, still with the vermilion stain upon her forehead, still wearing round her neck the blessed marriage cord with which he had so often toyed. For she had point-blank refused to allow it to be broken. Time enough for the widow's shroud, she had said. To-day she was still Prem's wife--he had scarce had time to die.
So she sat quite still, looking at the place where he had lain, thinking of those last words. Had she really heard them? Was it possible, the thing that had leapt to her mind?
Deep down in her heart she knew vaguely that the feet of her idol had been of clay; that with Prem all things were possible. Poor, wandering feet, which might yet have kept to the straight path, if--Oh, Prem! Prem! Had it been her fault? Or was she wronging him?
Then, suddenly, that recurring phrase recurred to her once more.
"The footstep of a dog--the footstep of a dog."
Was it past midnight? Had another day begun--the day of judgment? Surely; then she could see--yea! She could prove it was not true.
The moon was just sinking as, close-wrapped in her veil, she crept down to the edge of the nullah, where the burning-ground lay; a gruesome place, haunted by the spirits of the departed, not to be ventured near after dark. But Sarsuti had forgotten all the village lore, she had forgotten everything save that deadly doubt.