She laid her cheek against Sundari’s, and a wave of solemn joy seemed to break in her soul and flood it with life and light.
“Had I known sooner!” she said. “For now the night draws on.”
“What is time?” answered the Rajput woman. “We stand before the Lords of Life and Death. The life you gave was yours, and I am unworthy to kiss the feet of the Queen. Our lord will return and his son is saved. The House can be rebuilt. My son and I were waifs washed up from the sea. Another wave washes us back to nothingness. Tell him my story and he will loathe me.”
“My lips are shut,” said the Queen. “Should I betray my sister’s honour? When he speaks of the noble women of old, your name will be among them. What matters which of us he loves and remembers? Your soul and mine have seen the same thing, and we are one. But I—what have I to do with life? The ship and the bed of the conqueror await us. Should we await them, my sister?”
The bright tears glittered in the eyes of Sundari at the tender name and the love in the face of the Queen. At last she accepted it.
“My sister, no,” she said, and drew from her bosom the dagger of Maya, with the man’s blood rusted upon it. “Here is the way. I have kept this dagger in token of my debt. Nightly have I kissed it, swearing that, when the time came, I would repay my debt to the great Queen. Shall I go first or follow, my sister?”
Her voice lingered on the word. It was precious to her. It was like clear water, laying away the stain of the shameful years.
“Your arm is strong,” answered the Queen. “I go first. Because the King’s son is safe, I bless you. For your love of the King, I love you. And here, standing on the verge of life, I testify that the words of the Blessed One are truth—that love is All; that hatred is Nothing.”
She bared the breast that this woman had made desolate—that, with the love of this woman, was desolate ho longer, and, stooping, laid her hand on the brow of Mindon. Once more they embraced, and then, strong and true, and with the Rajput passion behind the blow, the stroke fell and Sundari had given her sister the crowning mercy of deliverance. She laid the body beside her own son, composing the stately limbs, the quiet eyelids, the black lengths of hair into majesty. So, she thought, in the great temple of the Rajput race, the Mother Goddess shed silence and awe upon her worshippers. The two lay like mother and son—one slight hand of the Queen she laid across the little body as if to guard it.
Her work done, she turned to the entrance and watched the dawn coming glorious over the river. The men shouted and quarreled in the distance, but she heeded them no more than the chattering of apes. Her heart was away over the distance to the King, but with no passion now: so might a mother have thought of her son. He was sleeping, forgetful of even her in his dreams. What matter? She was glad at heart. The Queen was dearer to her than the King—so strange is life; so healing is death. She remembered without surprise that she had asked no forgiveness of the Queen for all the cruel wrongs, for the deadly intent—had made no confession. Again what matter? What is forgiveness when love is all?