“I loved them—both. Ahalya, thou beautiful one,—lying here,—what hath been thy Fate in death?”
The last words were barely audible; for it required courage to break the silence of that room. The stillness of it seemed almost supernatural. It was scarcely broken by the faint fluttering of a winged creature that skimmed in through the half-open doorway. Oman looked up and perceived a slender, gray bird, of peculiar shape, hovering under the roof above his head. It was his companion, he knew at once. Bhavani seemed not to have noticed the intrusion; and Oman did not mention it. But the scene was suddenly complete for him. He felt comforted. And he realized also that here, some day, he should himself yield up his imprisoned souls, and in this silent place enter upon his well-earned rest. Looking into Bhavani’s eyes, he said, quietly:
“Lord Rajah, let thy father’s ashes be some day laid within this room. Many years have passed since these two committed their sin against him. To their troubled souls it would be forgiveness should he, whom they so wronged in life, come to them in death, and lie beside them, peacefully.”
So gently did Oman say this, and with such conviction, that Bhavani could not be shocked by the idea. After a long, thoughtful silence, he only observed: “Thinkest thou so, indeed?” And then he relapsed again into thought. Shortly afterward, without further speech between them, they passed out of the tomb, closing the door behind them.
A little later the company rode away from the lonely place, their faces turned toward Mandu. It was a quieter journey than that of the morning; for the service in the temple-tomb had not failed to make its impression on the most careless. Oman and Bhavani were again side by side, still silent and thoughtful, gazing into the cloudy east. When at last they left the river and struck across the plain, Bhavani, leaning toward his companion, said, in a muffled voice:
“Thou hast spoken of peace to the twain were my father laid beside them there by the river. Why, rather, should not their ashes be carried up into Mandu, and placed in the palace temple, where their Rajah lies?”
Oman hesitated for a moment, stroking his horse’s mane. Then he answered, dreamily: “That is their place there, by the river. It is a peaceful sleep. They would not rest well near the palace of their treachery.”
Bhavani bowed his head, and seemed as if about to reply; but he closed his lips again without having uttered any word.
Thus ended Oman’s first visit to the tomb: an incident that brought much into his life. It proved the beginning of intangible things that carried changes in their train. There was at first a new relaxation of mind; for it seemed as if some final touch had been put upon his own existence. Less than ten miles away was his own resting-place, waiting his coming. He knew this intuitively; and it seemed to him that, however long he should still live, there could be no further pilgrimage for him. His life at Mandu was not for a mere Vassa season. He had attained his Arahatship; and need not any longer dread the privation months each year.
During the following summer Oman went twice, alone, to the tomb; each time spending the night there and returning, next day, on foot. What he did in those times, or why he went, no one knew. But he had been given a key to the temple doors, and men might see, if they wished, that he carried it always in his girdle. Zenaide once ventured to ask him of the purpose of his journeys, and he smiled, and answered her: