Thus it came about, after all, that there were marriage feasts that year in Mandu. A princess was brought from Mandaleshwar, on the north bank of the Narmáda, far to the east. And there was a great Brahman sacrifice, and the usual three days of ceremonial. The deserted zenana was opened once more, and a new woman installed there in her loneliness. One week her husband tarried by her side. Then he took his man’s privilege, and left her alone in her state, while he marched away at the head of his little army—fifteen hundred men—into the echoing north. The benedictions and the adoration of all Mandu followed him. Old Bhavani had been a good ruler, the kindest, the most just of men. But, after all, men were made for war, and it was better that the princes of men should be generals than judges. Alas for Mandu! Rejoicing in its newly raised standards, shouting itself hoarse with its own battle-cries, deaf to presentiment, to rumor, to the prophecies of the gods, what wonder that it heard nothing of that faintly-echoing cry that was ringing out over all the plains and heights of India? The cry that had risen out of the black Kaaba of far Mecca, and now rolled, in one continuous shout, from western Granada to Benares, the holy city, transcending speech by its sharp fanaticism, finding by force a home in every land: “La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!” This was the cry that Viradha had gone forth to oppose. It was the same cry to which Viradha’s grandfather had answered with his death.
The young prince went away in the middle of the Ashtaka month (December). His going made no change in Mandu, save that it gave the people an added interest outside their monotonous lives. The pleasant winter passed slowly away. Bhavani had begun to depend much on his appointed teacher of men; and Oman left his unheeded labors among the lowly in order to watch over his dearly loved lord. Bhavani was sad; missed his son; suffered keenly, but did not complain. Oman himself never suspected how much that royal soul endured, silently. But, as the days passed, he became more and more aware of a changing aspect in many things. There was in him a sense of foreboding, a feeling of finality, indefinable, omnipresent. Zenaide also felt it, and her melancholy became unconquerable. She knew what the outer senses could not tell her; and even Oman’s quietly proffered sympathy was repelled. Bhavani doubtless guessed all that passed in their minds; but he could not take their burden from them. He knew himself to be too near the end. He could only spare them anxiety by the silent endurance of pain.
The end came sooner than even he, perhaps, had expected. It was in February, about the middle of the month; and early thrills of spring hung in the air. On the eighteenth day, at noon, Oman, who was in his own room after a long morning in the school, was roused by Bhavani’s favorite slave and conducted swiftly through the palace to Bhavani’s bedroom. Bhavani was on his couch; and Oman, who had not seen him since the previous evening, at once knew everything. The room was in confusion. Evidently many people—doctors, priests, slaves—had been there recently. Why they were now gone, Oman could not surmise. Bhavani lay breathing in long, heavy gasps, with intervals of startling length. His face wore the gray hue of death. His eyes were closed; but he felt Oman’s entrance, for he put out his hand, and Oman took it and fell upon his knees beside the bed.
“Let me summon help for thee,” he said, in a low, clear voice that suggested nothing of what he felt.
“No,” gasped the dying one. Then, after an effort, he added: “I hear Brahma’s voice. Shall I not—answer it?”
Oman could not speak. He buried his head near the face of his friend. It seemed to him, at that moment, that Fate had found a cruelty too great for passive endurance. For Oman loved this man as he had never hoped to love in life. It was like tearing his heart in two to watch that inevitable, resistless advance of death. Yet, with the heroism that was in him, he accepted Bhavani’s own decree: feeling, indeed, that there was no human help for his King.
Moments passed:—an hour:—and still Oman knelt by the bed. Suddenly it seemed as if the Rajah’s breath was coming a little more easily, a little less terribly. Quickly he lifted his head, and looked. There was a change. Bhavani looked older, grayer, more shrunken. But his eyes were half unclosed, and he seemed to be in less pain. While Oman gazed, unable to speak, scarcely to think, a shadowy smile crossed the Rajah’s lips, and he began to murmur a few unintelligible words. Oman bent to catch them, and Bhavani’s eyes rested on his face.
“Fidá,” he whispered, low, but distinctly: “we played together—with Ahalya—”
“Yes. Yes!” answered Oman, hoarsely.
“Brave things. Let us play again. I always Arjuna. Thou, O Fidá, Yudishthir, the King.—Ahalya, the beautiful Draupadi. I have won her from all the rest. But now—we are marching away—from Hastinapur. We are seeking heaven. It is a long journey. We reach the sea. Dost thou remember all the places, Fidá? Agni stops us awhile; and then—we come into the plain that leads to Himavan. I have read it many times. See,—they are gone, all of them! Nakula and Bhima and Draupadi are dead in the desert. But I go on alone into the hills—and—yes, this time he is there!—Sakra—O God!—I come!—Behold, I come!”