“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”
broke in Ragunáth, whispering,
“‘One delight of all thy beauty;
But yield up open-hearted
His pearl, his prize, his bride!’”
Ahalya shuddered again and was silent, wondering what evil genius had made her begin that song. She began to fear, desperately, that Bhavani had not understood: that she was really left alone, at the mercy of this man whom she feared as much as she hated. Therefore, filled with terror at what she had made herself do, she suddenly determined to attempt escape; and, on the instant darting from Ragunáth’s side, she started, at the top of her speed, across the grass, in the direction of the road. Ragunáth, taken wholly by surprise, stood for a second staring after her, and then hurried in pursuit. Unhampered by his garments, and far more used to swift exercise than she, he overtook her halfway to the road, and caught her round the waist in an iron clasp.
She gave a faint cry, and, at his touch, strove wildly to escape it. But Ragunáth was not now in a mood to let her go. Grasping her yet more firmly, he lifted her, and, in the starry darkness, carried her across the open space and into a little copse of champaks and wild cotton trees at one side of the empty lawn. Here began a fierce struggle. Ahalya fought like one possessed of a demon; and Ragunáth was a little aghast at the strength of her fury. Fearing to hurt her, and realizing that at this rate her strength could not last, he devoted himself only to defence and the prevention of her escape, reserving his force for the time of her exhaustion. And indeed Ahalya presently found herself in a sad plight. Her strength would not last above a minute more. Only one hope was left now; and that was desperate enough. Lifting her head, she uttered two piercing screams. And—to Ragunáth’s consternation—she was answered by a fierce cry, as a man’s figure dashed through the trees to where they stood.
Ahalya had only an instant in which to recognize the gaunt form of Fidá. She caught one view of his face in the gloom, alight with such fury as she had never dreamed he possessed. Then the two men were locked together in mortal struggle.
Broken and weak with the strain and terror of the last half-hour, horror-stricken at what was happening now, Ahalya stood like one entranced, watching without sound or movement the combat going on before her. She could not, in the darkness, distinguish between the two forms rolling together on the ground. The men fought without a sound:—Ragunáth with the strength of passion, Fidá with a final fury of jealousy and despair. It lasted only three or four minutes. Then the woman, who, in her terror, stood rocking her body back and forward, holding both hands to the sides of her head as if that helped her to suppress the wild screams on her lips, saw one figure suddenly rise above the other, draw a weapon from his girdle and plunge it once, twice, thrice, into the breast of the other who was struggling to lift himself from the ground. Instantly, with a low, gurgling cry, the body fell back. And Ahalya, peering like a mad-woman into the dusk at the living man, whispered hoarsely:
“Fidá—Fidá—is it thou?”