Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room; nor did any one attempt to stop him. Osman, confounded, dazed, indeed, by the assurance of Oman’s act, remained motionless, staring after him. The two guards who had brought him from the tower, and had watched the scene with speechless astonishment, seeing that their lord gave no commands about his recapture, stepped aside to let him pass. And the others in the room never noticed him at all.
Heeding nothing of what lay behind, entirely fearless of the conquerors, Oman left the hall in which Rai-Khizar-Pál, and Bhavani, and lately he himself, had been wont to sit in council, crossed the broad courtyard where the slave Fidá had so often watched, and finally reached the road, which was silent, and lighted only by the stars. The palace of Mandu was behind him, but he had yet one other mission to fulfil. He went on to the water-palace, which, a little while before, he had beheld, still with the stillness of death. Was Zenaide there? Or whither was she gone? He must know. For she had now only him in the world to look to.
When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement and consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within, near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound. There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum: her sleeping chamber. Here he found her.
All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves. There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt half a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these were one or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but uttering no sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived something else, which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At the far end of the room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and upon it, quiet, peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess of Radha, in her last sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful, red-dyed hair was bound smoothly into a high crown above her brow, and one or two white lotos flowers were fastened above her ears. Her garments were all white, her feet encased in white shoes. There was but one spot of color anywhere. Over her heart, beneath her left breast, was a stain of moist crimson, that widened and spread a little, even as Oman gazed. It told him all that he would have asked. He stood silent over her, while the women and slaves crept close, looking up to him with some sign of hope in their heavy eyes. But, for the first time, perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His thoughts, indeed, were not here. He was thinking of the slow order in which every one that he had known and loved in his life had passed into the other land. It was beginning to come home to him that his own hour of liberation was near. His eyes travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect form, from her face, which now, in its repose, showed the marks of time and sorrow, down her white arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then, suddenly lifting his hands over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee, in peace!”
Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him, demanding what they were to do.
“The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let her be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye convey this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord Bhavani. Thus they shall meet in blessed death.”
Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying: “And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a whisper, for she felt her presumption.
“Whither I go ye know not. Sufficient it is that ye see me for the last time. I commend your mistress to your care. Farewell.”
Then Oman, in his stained garments, with the marks of fetters on his wrists and ankles, left the room of mourning and passed through the house till he came again to the central room. Here, the crises of the day at last ended, his body was overcome with weariness; and he lay down beside the marble pool, and slept.