Feebly he held out his shrunken fingers, and Oman clasped them close and steadied him. Then Rama and his hosts came by, and halted for a moment at the cave till their number was joined by one. Thereafter they moved on again, beating their muffled drums. And Oman was left alone on the Silver Peak, with the body of Churi, the dying fire, and the gem, enclosed in its golden box. Long Oman sat there, beside the body of the vagabond, thinking. Finally, when the dawn was still three hours away, he rose and made ready for his task. But first, perhaps unconscious of what he did, he loosened the treasure from the stiffening fingers of the dead, and slipped the string, with its yellow box, about his own neck.
CHAPTER XI
SUNRISE
By night, on the eastern slope, Oman, under the light of the stars and moon, built a great funeral pyre of dry wood, brought from his store in the cave. There was in it neither sandal nor aloes, nor yet frankincense, nor any fragrant spice to cover the stench of burning human flesh. But the dry fagots would blaze high and fast; and the gay flames would quickly purify the long-tenanted body. When all was ready, Oman returned to the cave, and, lifting the still form of the old man, bore it out into the air of heaven and laid it on the pyre, its face turned toward the west, where the moon was now quietly sinking. Then, with a blazing stick brought from the cave, he lighted the funeral pyre and stood watching the flame-wreath that rose in a halo round the hoary head.
To an Indian, this purification by fire is no infamy, nor is there anything horrible in it. It is his sacred ceremony for the beloved dead. While Oman made his preparations for it, he had suffered no repulsion. And yet now, as he watched the dead form—so pinched, so pallid, so unreal, lying complacently on the great fire-bed, with the flames curling around the flesh: now, as the long beard and white hair were singed away, and the blackened visage grinned in horrid baldness, a thrill shot through Oman’s breast, and, stifling a cry, he turned and ran from the spot, up, up, through the wood, and into the open, on the height. There he threw himself down, beside a giant boulder, and, burying his head in his arms, gave himself up to a new repulsion and a new heart-sickness.
The moon had set; and the world was very still. The crackling of the fire and the hiss that went with it were the only audible sounds. Animal noises had ceased. A far, faint breeze stirred the tree-tops; but there was no suggestion of the fierce rains of the previous day. The whole sky was softly luminous with waning moon- light and the redoubled splendor of stars. Far below, the valleys and the base of the hills were lightly swathed in mist. Peace brooded over the great Vindhyas; and gradually Oman’s horror was swept away. The sweet night air cooled his frame and dried the tears that had wet his face. Weariness overcame his excitement at the events of the day and night; and he fell into a kind of stupor. He was not asleep, for he was still conscious of the workings of nature:—the setting of the moon, the dark hour, the dying glow of the fire, whose work was done, and the heavy wheeling through the sky of two or three night birds. His brain, however, was numb. He neither thought, nor felt the desire to think. His head rested against the rock, and his eyes closed. An hour passed; and, by degrees, the darkness gave way to a faint, shadowy light. The night was over. Day was at hand.
In this first grayness, Oman lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then he rose and looked down to the wood, where the fire had been. For a moment he hesitated, but finally turned away. He could not go there yet. For a few moments he paced up and down the broad, treeless space on the height, and then returned to his rock, and set his face to the wondrous east.
The far horizon was streaked with palest rose and yellow, melting into a shadowy sky. Above this bed of color, the starry rushlights one by one melted away. Only the morning star, the jewel in Ushas’ frontlet, remained, flashing in the now deepening crimson, till Ushas herself, having opened the sun-gates, passed from the sky and returned into the land of the gods. The colors were intensified as new light crept up the heavens; and above the gold was a band of pale, clear green that merged softly into the upper blue. Now, down the slope, and over all the wooded hillsides, rose a musical murmur, the song of waking things: birds, and insects. And fearlessly they performed the morning hymn, undisturbed by any thought of man. By now the creatures of the jungle had returned to their lairs, the night’s prowling ended; and the world was waking from dread to the joy of new day.
There was a long, still pause. The clear light grew clearer, the crimson deepened with inner fire, two or three little cloud-boats near the horizon were gay with rosy glow; but the shimmering valley mists had passed quietly away. The world was ready and waiting. Yet still Surya, rejoicing in the magnificence of his pageantry, delayed his coming, till the man upon the mountain top, impatient of the time, bethought him of his treasure, pulled the golden box from beneath his robe, opened it, and let the contents fall into his hand. The ruby seemed a talisman; for, as Oman held the clear stone against the sky, the first fire-beam shot above the horizon, and the great, flaming wheel rolled up from behind a far-off hill. The world broke into the climax of its morning song; and, in his heart, Oman also sang: strange words, fitted to a wondrous melody. Then, by degrees, he was silent again, his eyes, lowered from the too dazzling light, fixed upon the fiery heart of Churi’s legacy—the Asra ruby.
As Oman gazed into the scintillating depths of this rare and wonderful stone, he was thrown into a kind of waking slumber, a trance, in which scenes of a dim-lit past crowded upon him. Churi’s tale returned:—the young prince in captivity, who had bought his love with this stone:—Fidá el-Asra. Oman saw him, clearly, standing in a small and richly furnished room, beside a woman clad in clinging, scarlet draperies, a wreath of poppies woven in her heavy hair. This woman’s face grew more distinct, and shone almost transparent, till, as she gazed into the face of the man, a faint smile lighted her lips. But there was a mournful sadness in her lustrous eyes; and, seeing these eyes, Oman’s heart throbbed with understanding.
This man and this woman, burning in the depths of the ruby, were no vision. Nay, he knew them both: he, Oman, the outcast, the hermit. But how explain the reality of the dream? Had he sheltered the twain in his own breast? How else came he to know their suffering: to suffer with them? How else was it that he saw the dark shadow of crime lying on both their hearts? How else that a gurgle and rush of water sounded in his ears, and that he shuddered as he felt the chilly contact? How else could he realize the terror of helplessness that had been upon these two souls, as they rose together from the embracing waters, to that space where water could not hide their deed? How, finally, was it that, straightway after this, he was himself again, standing upon the height where his battle had been fought and won, and where the vision had appeared? The jewel was still glowing in his fingers; the sun was only just upon the edge of the horizon;—but he had lived a year in three minutes. Did this mendicant’s gem hold within it some baleful magic? With a sudden sense of revulsion he dropped the ruby back into its box, thrust it out of sight under his robe, and, shaking away the still clinging dream, walked slowly back into his cave.