"It is most likely the President of Bombay," thought I, and I cared nothing to see him.
But all at once the Ball rolled out from under my feet, I lost my balance, and fell on my knees.... A woman's voice had cried:
"Iravata!"
Who could call my name of other days?... my name of happiness? And the voice—that voice so sweet and musical, which penetrated me like a sword, cast me onto my knees, and sent all the blood to my heart!... It could be no voice but hers—her own voice! I was sure of it, and yet I dared not look—it seemed as if mistaken I should die!
The audience, surprised and respectful, kept perfectly still; and the voice, grown sad this time, spoke again:
"Have you forgotten me altogether, Iravata?"
In one bound I was on my feet, and before the box, which was just my height, and through tears of joy I beheld Parvati, as if through flames of fire.... She caressed me—kissed me—caring nothing for the crowds who looked on in amazement.... And I! no human being, even, could have expressed what I felt, and I was more than ever ashamed of the hoarse cries, and the stampings that were the only means I possessed of expressing a joy that took my breath away.
