The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

The next half hour was to Oman a dream. How much of what he felt was memory and how much revelation, he had no means of knowing; but there seemed to be no unfamiliar corner in this great building. They entered the central courtyard, where, as of old, a fire burned by night. Before them was the open entrance to the carved and pillared audience hall. To the left, rose the north wing, with its long corridor and tiny entrance to the triangular zenana courtyard; and, on the right, the south wing, with its temple room, official suites, and barracks. Behind it, Oman knew, without any doubt, lay the slave-house. Bhavani, guessing nothing of what his companion was undergoing, presently left him, with a slave to whom he had given directions concerning Oman’s lodging and entertainment.

It was with a feeling of tremulous awe at his profound sensations that Oman followed his guide into the north wing, down the broad hall, and up the old, familiar passage, till they halted before what had once been the apartments of Ragunáth. The doorway was still heavily curtained. But within, all was changed. The room that had been an antechamber, was now cut off from the others of the suite, and was evidently where Oman was to lodge. The little place was richly furnished. Around two sides ran a low, broad divan, many-cushioned. Walls and floor alike were covered with heavy rugs. Round stands, piles of pillows, a tall incense burner, a huqua, and a little shrine containing an image of Vishnu, completed the furniture; and the whole place, which was windowless, was lighted night and day by three swinging lamps.

Once in this room, the slave demanded of Oman whether he had any commands to give; and, receiving a negative, speedily retired. For some moments Oman stood quite still, gazing around him, his mind filled with wonder. He was back in the present now, realizing that never in his life had he thought to see a room like this. He had always regarded his childhood as the most comfortable and luxurious period of his life; and now, to him coming out of the long years of hardship and privation when he had looked for no better provision than a meal of parched grain and a bed of grass in a cave, this luxury was scarcely to be believed.

After a little, Oman began to move slowly around the room, feasting his eyes on every passing phase of richness. And finally, with a hesitation born of timidity, he ventured to lie down on the divan, resting his head and shoulders on cushions, and drawing up his knees, after the universal custom of the Orient. Then, all at once, a feeling of naturalness came. Luxury was no longer strange. The glowing lights, the subdued color, the faint aroma of stale incense, induced ghostlike dreams of what had been, of things to come. His eyes were half closed. Languor and drowsiness stole on him. It was the most delicious hour he had ever known.

After a time, Oman had no idea of how long, a slave entered, carrying a tray on which was such a meal as the wanderer had not seen since he left the Vihara of Truth. Without making the least sound, the white-robed servitor placed one of the low, round stands beside the divan, laid the meal thereon, and disappeared for a moment, to return with a silver basin and ewer, and a broad, fringed napkin. Oman held his hands over the bowl. Perfumed water was poured over them. He dried them on the cloth, and then, with a look, dismissed the slave. For a few seconds more he lay quiet, hesitating to eat. Then he turned upon his elbow and began the lazy meal, not like a hungry man—which he was—but after the fashion of palace dwellers, who feast five times a day. When he was satisfied, he lay back again, and the slave reappeared with sherbet and a jar of wine. Leaving these on the stand, he removed the remnants of the meal, and departed again, this time for good.

Oman touched neither the sherbet nor the liquor, but stretched himself out on the couch, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up to the dreams that were still haunting him. That he had been in Mandu before was certain. But how, and where? The tale that Churi had told upon his death-night, of the slave prince and the young Ranee, seemed in some way to have taken root in his heart, until their story and his own dreams of this place had become inextricably intertwined. Why were they so close to him? What vaguest suspicion was fluttering through his mind? Above all, how came he to be so familiar with the plan of the palace? Questions—questions—questions! They crowded upon him till he could no longer think: till his brain was fairly numb.

Then, gradually, under the influence of the quiet and solitude, he fell into that stupor of profound meditation which is natural to the Hindoo only. His head rested on the cushions. His knees were drawn up under him. His eyes burned brilliantly under their half-closed lids. And his mind, once more under control, wandered far, through unfathomable space. Time passed. The hour grew late, and the busy life of the palace was stilled. Oman heeded nothing, nor remembered what surrounded him. He had forgotten Mandu, the day, the woman of gold, the beauty of Bhavani—everything; and had slipped back into the old freedom of his days on the Silver Peak. Humankind was infinitely far from his thoughts. But humankind had not forgotten him. Suddenly the curtain of his doorway was thrust aside, and Bhavani came quietly into the room.

The Rajah was not now in royal raiment, but clad from head to heels in spotless white, the purity of which seemed a fitting frame for his fine physique and the spiritual dignity of his face. At sight of the figure on the divan before him, he paused for a few seconds, and then spoke, gently:

“Oman Ramasarman, I am come hither—thine host.”

For a moment, Oman seemed not to have heard. Then, with an effort, he rose, and stood submissively before the Rajah, evidently waiting for him to speak again. This Bhavani did.