To this the woman made no reply. Oman had expended all his comfort; and now he sat waiting for her to speak again. She remained quiet, however, her chin resting on her clasped hands, her elbows on her knees, her face thrust a little forward. Her brow was contracted, and she seemed to be thinking, deeply. Her cheeks bore the marks of tears. Her hair and dress were disarranged. But she was oblivious of her appearance. Oman sat studying her, and did not realize how long the silence had lasted when, without changing her attitude, she said slowly:
“It is a creed for men, only for men, that you preach, O sage. It is cold. It is hard. It is relentless. What need have I of tranquillity and calm? I am a woman of red blood. Preach you to me resistance of the emotions? Think you that bloodlessness, quietude, loneliness seem beautiful to me?—Ah, yes—it is true! It is true! He is like that, and I wish to be like him. I will be like him, Oman Ramasarman! I will, I will—dost hear? I will!”
“What is it that thou wilt, Zenaide?”
Oman and the woman sprang to their feet, as Bhavani walked quietly into the room.
“My lord!” cried Zenaide, faintly; and Oman went hastily forward, with an irrelevant remark which Bhavani answered, wondering. While this was in progress, Zenaide’s hands were busy with her hair, with her face, with her dress; and presently she approached, mistress of herself again, so quiet, so self-contained, that Oman could only marvel at her power.
Bhavani did not stay long, nor would he permit Oman to depart before him, however much Zenaide wished it. He seated himself beside the woman, and talked with her about one or two personal matters; while Oman, standing apart, covertly watched the two. He tried hard to discover in Zenaide some sign of the feeling she had so lately displayed. But, search as he would, he could find nothing in her bearing that remotely suggested her true state. If she was always thus with Bhavani, there was surely little to fear. From her the hermit’s eyes moved to the Rajah. He was talking as he would have talked to a man whose friendship he valued. Seeing them both thus, Oman took heart. Surely an unlawful emotion could not be very strong in either heart.
It was after sunset when Bhavani rose to go; and he and Oman took leave together, Zenaide begging Oman, in an undertone, to come again to her that she might talk with him further. Oman promised readily; and then, arm in arm, he and the Rajah set out into the starry half-light. As they left the water-palace behind them, there fell on both an unexpected silence:—such a silence as, coming from the mind and will of one, is not to be broken by his companion. It settled over Oman oppressively; for where Bhavani was concerned, he was quick to feel the slightest change in mood. Encompassed by uneasiness, they moved on in the evening light, and Oman perceived that Bhavani’s steps lagged. It was as if he loitered to get courage to speak. Oman had a sense that some revelation was pending; but instinct told him that he might not question, might not make the slightest advance toward confidence. They proceeded till they were within a few yards of the palace, and Oman began to think his feeling a mistake, when suddenly Bhavani halted, and, turning to his companion till, even in the dim light, Oman could see how drawn and pale was his face, he said, in a muffled voice:
“Zenaide sent for thee to-day?”
“Yes.”
“And wherefore? Wherefore? What did she want of thee?”