“Oh, thou must go! It is time,” she murmured.
“No!” Ahalya, feeling the intruding presence, roused herself, and convulsively tightened the clasp of her arms about Fidá’s neck.
“Krishna!” mourned Neila, “we shall all be killed!”
Fidá, however, conquered himself, and loosened the Ranee’s arms. “Beloved, I must go—that I may return,” he whispered.
Trembling, Ahalya submitted; and, as Fidá rose, she sank upon the divan, face downward, nor could any intreaty induce her to lift her head again. So they parted, without a word; and, at the zenana door, Fidá found Churi, excited and uneasy. He hailed the Asra’s appearance with infinite relief.
“Mahendra will be here in a breath. I had nearly come for thee.”
Fidá smiled at him out of shining eyes. “Ah, Churi, had I a thousand rubies, they should all be thine!”
“Thou fool!” rose to Churi’s lips. But he only said: “Verily, the danger is worth rubies, even of the value of thine. Is this thing to be done again?”
“Again and yet again! until—” Fidá’s face darkened, “until I pay my price—of death.”
But Fidá as yet was far from death. Overcome with weariness he returned to his bed, and slept for nearly six hours before he woke to the new joy of light and living. That day he was as a man drunk. His exhilaration was boundless. He walked upon air. His eyes shone, his voice rang triumphant with love. The world was at its climax. She was his. What mattered dishonor? What mattered treachery, slavery, or the old, forgotten curse? Love, youth, the world, were his. Should he ask more?