“Then send Churi after us; but let him not intrude on me.” And Ahalya, now a little angry, started on again, Neila perforce following her. Kasya, troubled in his mind, turned away, and set off at a run for the palace, nor did he neglect to despatch Churi, “the doctor,” Ahalya’s favorite slave, after the errant Ranee. But Churi, who was more an individual than a slave, had ideas of his own about Ahalya, and did not hurry to follow her. He arrived, indeed, at the temple ruin, to find Neila stationed at its entrance as if on guard. And he had the immense self-restraint to join her without asking any questions.
Fidá, in the meantime, unconscious of the little sensation he was stirring up, was occupied in making an exploration of one corner of the plateau. As soon as the Rajah dismissed him he had started off by himself, having a great desire for solitude in which to meditate on a situation that was becoming every day more galling to him. Two weeks had passed since the departure of the embassy to his uncle’s camp; and he found himself gradually beginning to hope against hope that he would, after all, be rescued from his slavery. For this captivity which, for a few days, had been tinged with the glamour of adventure and romance, had now become the most irksome, the most unendurable of degradations. He walked for a long time, thinking deeply, paying little heed to his way till the scene became too remarkable to go unnoticed. He was two miles away from the palace when the road, which, some distance back, had turned sharply to the left, ran out of the flat, cultivated fields, and entered a wood which shortly became a little jungle, the road being cut through the heaviest undergrowth of bushes, trees, and sinuous vines. Around him, monkeys and paroquets chattered and screamed. The foliage was brilliant as with a second summer; for with autumn and the first suggestion of the second rains, summer leaps up again over all the northwest country; and Fidá was gazing about him delighted with the color and the life, the trouble of his heart banished by the beauty of nature, when suddenly his road turned again, and—ended.
Before him, to the precipitous edge of the plateau, stretched a naturally clear space, in the centre of which stood a giant building, gone all to ruin. Its huge sandstone blocks were black with age and green with moss and growing plants. Its veranda and great doors were open to the daylight; and within, through openings in the roof, bright sunlight shone. The architecture was crude and heavy; but Fidá recognized, without difficulty, the style of the oldest Buddhism. And he divined correctly the history of this building, which he had started out to find: that it had once been a Vihara, later converted to the uses of Surya, one of the Brahman gods.
The place was, like the religion it still symbolized, a magnificent ruin. And its setting was worthy of it; for the fields on either side were overrun with flaming poppies, blooming for the second time in the year, and filling the whole air with the somnolence of their burden of opium. Beyond the fields, a fitting frame for the picture, the jungle commenced again: a high wall of subdued color, green and brown, splashed with the scarlet of the wild-cotton flowers. Fidá, halting in wonder, felt his heart suddenly grow light. Here were poppies—her flowers. It was a propitious omen. In his trouble, he had come upon a place devoted to her symbols. Was it a sign to him to remain in Mandu, hoping, however vainly, sometime to find a way to her? Smiling a little at the Indian superstition of his thoughts, he moved on, rambled for a time round the rock-strewn rooms within the temple, and finally out into the fields, where the flowers took effect on him again and set his mind running hotly upon Ahalya, the one woman of his world.
An hour had passed since he left the palace, and he knew that in a little time he must turn his steps again toward slavery. This thought intensified the delight of lingering here, held by the fascination of the wild flowers. And it was now, at the most beautiful hour, in this enchanted spot, that she herself, Ahalya, came to him. Fidá saw two figures appear from the trees by the temple. Both were women. He got to his feet, trembling a little. Only one was advancing:—dressed all in white, the head-veil thrown back from her face, under one arm a broad, flat basket. Yes; it was Ahalya. Fidá perceived that he was neither blind nor mad. She, the Ranee, was here, with him. Hesitatingly he advanced toward her, two or three steps, and their eyes met.
Ahalya crimsoned violently; and seeing this, Fidá grew bold. Not thinking of the enormity of his daring, with only the memory of two empty weeks upon him, he went straight toward her, and when he was at her side began, passionately: “Most beautiful of women! Lotus-lidded! Lily-faced! I behold thee, and thou art not a dream!” And then abruptly he paused, overcome by the situation.
Ahalya turned to look behind her, and Fidá’s eyes followed hers. Churi had arrived at the ruin, but he and Neila stood leaning against a fallen stone, their backs to the poppy-field, evidently talking together. The Ranee, seeing herself safe enough, became confused; and, still half turned away from the slave, murmured, with an embarrassed manner:
“I came—to gather poppies. Did my lord send you hither?”
“Thy lord—sleeps,” muttered Fidá.
Ahalya gave a nervous start. Now that she had attained her end, the Ranee began to wish herself a thousand miles away, so confused was she by the presence of this man. Fidá saw how her hands trembled; and, emboldened by the flush of her half-averted cheek, his heart beating furiously with a sudden hope, he took her by the hand and gently, persuasively, led her to the stone from which he had just risen. Here, though she would have protested, he caused her to sit down. “I must have the poppies,” she found courage to say, lifting up her basket, and suddenly smiling. “Neila and Churi may come at any moment.” And she turned again to look at the ruin. This time the two figures had disappeared entirely.