Oman spent the next two hours in the greatest confusion of mind. Never in his life had he been brought into contact with such a woman as he knew this one to be:—such a woman as the great Indian romances love to concern themselves with. He thought of the incident of the Buddha’s entertainment by the woman of Vesali, the beloved of Ajuta-Satra, and of her conversion to the faith. Had the Sakyamuni found danger in her presence? Was her hair of golden red? And then, suddenly, Oman started up, resolutely turning his mind to other things. Hurriedly he bathed and clothed himself in a fresh gown of white linen, girt himself with a broad, yellow sash, and wound a white turban around his head. Then, without pause, he set out for the water-palace.
The afternoon was late, and the shadows lay long and golden across the road. Full summer was already on the land, and Mandu was a riot of verdure. Oman’s mood responded easily to the scene. Under the spell of the surrounding beauty, his thoughts grew lighter, till, when he paused before the open doors of the waterpalace, he no longer looked like an ascetic. The sombre fires in his eyes had brightened, and his face was softened with a smile.
In the curtained doorway stood a tall slave, clad in rich livery, who addressed Oman with an air of profound respect, and at once made way for him to pass within. Oman found himself following the slave across a broad, square hall, in the centre of which was a marble tank filled with clear water; and thence they proceeded to the end of a short corridor, where, before another curtained doorway, Oman was left alone.
After a moment’s hesitation he lifted the curtain, and crossed the threshold. He was facing a long, narrow room, stone-paved, lighted from the top, the walls hung with embroidered silks of delicate hues. There was an air of unusual lightness and airiness about the whole place; and Oman’s eyes wandered for some seconds before he perceived that, at the far end of the room, in front of a long, amber-colored divan, half hidden by a screen, stood Zenaide. Oman uttered a short exclamation, and started forward, observing, as he approached her, that there was no smile on her lips. His eyes estimated her again; and they found much that was new. She was clad to-day in a long garment of silvery green, that showed her more slender than he had thought. She was also paler. Her hair was woven into a crown upon her head, but was without ornament; and in her dark eyes there was no expression of the voluptuary. Oman found himself newly puzzled as he seated himself, at her bidding, on the divan, while she sank upon a low pile of cushions on the floor. They had not yet spoken when a slave entered, with a tray of sherbets and sweetmeats which Oman refused, and Zenaide, not pressing him, herself waved away. When they were alone again, she rose, impulsively, ran down the room, and lowered a double hanging before the door. Then she turned, slowly, facing Oman, who was watching her. For some moments she neither advanced nor spoke. Oman perceived that she was in a state of repressed agitation, for her fingers twined and intertwined, and her clinging garments betrayed a nervous quivering of her body. It seemed as if it were impossible for her to speak; yet, as Oman did not help her, she had, perforce, to make a beginning. She had examined him minutely, face and figure, before she exclaimed, abruptly:
“Art thou indeed as learned as they tell me, O sage?”
Oman’s expression changed. “Not in thy lore,” he answered.
“My lore? And what is that?”
“Art thou not a woman? Thy lore is love.”
“Ah!” The expression escaped involuntarily. It was a betrayal.
“Ah!” echoed Oman. “It was for that you sent for me! Know, then, that I am not a faquir, not a mag—”