“I do not know, Lord Rajah.”
“Thou knowest me!”
“Thou—art Bhavani,” muttered Oman, softly, to himself.
The Rajah recoiled a step or two, gazing at Oman earnestly. Then he asked, in a new voice: “Who art thou?”
Oman had now recovered himself enough to reply to Bhavani’s question literally. “I am called Oman Ramasarman. I was born a Brahman.—I have been a Bhikkhu, and a hermit, dwelling in the hills, whence I descended to Mandu.”
For a moment, Bhavani’s expression was puzzled. Then he shook himself, slightly, woke from his dream, and observed: “Thou lookest younger than I. What is thine age?”
Oman shook his head. “My lord, I do not know. When I went up to dwell on the Silver Peak, my age was nineteen years. But how long I lived there—fifteen, twenty years, perhaps,—I cannot say. It is a lifetime, and yet again it seems to me as if I had not lived there at all: as if I had only known a great vision, that has faded away.”
“Thou wast young, very young, to go up into the hills alone. And, from thy face, it was indeed many years before thou camest down. Then tell me, Oman: was that solitude very terrible to endure?”
Oman’s eyes grew vague. It was as if he looked into the infinite as he replied: “Yes, it was terrible. I am told that not many can live as did I, in utter solitude, and, at the end of five years, still retain reason and speech. The Chelahs that go up into the fastnesses, for prayer and the study of sacred manuscripts, go two together, and, by companionship, preserve their minds. But I had no companion. I was outcast of men.”
“Outcast! Thou? A Brahman?”