"Witchcraft, brother? they do no witchcraft," she replied simply.
"By the Mother, they do," he cried; "feel my hands, feel my head, they are burning, and Tara has set me on fire."
"Moro, thou art ill; this is fever," returned his sister anxiously. "I was like this yesterday, and Anunda gave me some medicine, and I slept, and it passed away. Let me fetch some, or send the woman for it."
"No, no, Radha," he said hoarsely, "this is no fever; this is a spell on me, and I cannot break it. This is the spell Tara wears round her neck, Gunga told me of it. It would not let her speak; it draws me to her, and then puts me away till I burn. O sister, I burn all over, and at night when there is no one with me—O, it is terrible, terrible; and she comes and mocks me, and holds out water and flowers, and then snatches them away. I tell thee she is a witch, a devil, and she has set me on fire. Bring her to me and I will tell her so."
"Brother, dear brother," said the girl, "you are ill, and there is no one to tend you. I will stay; why did you not send for me? why not tell me of this sooner? Now, I will not leave you, you must not be alone."
"Radha, I am not ill," he replied; "I need no tending. Was I ill yesterday, when I overcame the Brahmuns from Punderpoor in the discussion at night, and when I could have said the Ramayun by heart? Was I ill to-day when I strove with the Nassuk Brahmuns in logic? No, girl, I am not ill in body, only at heart. And when she comes to the temple, and goes round the shrine crowned with flowers, clashing the cymbals and singing hymns with the priests, then I see the charm on her bosom, and it sparkles; and I hear her ringing voice, and I grow mad, Radha—mad ... and this fever comes on me, and I burn as they do in hell—as I do now. Look!" he cried in a shrill cry of pain, "look, she is there, mocking me now, and pushing me in.... O Tara!" he continued in a plaintive voice, after a pause, stretching out his hands and shutting his eyes, as he turned away, "do not kill me, do not burn me; I kiss your feet, I worship you, beloved! do not harm me!"
"What can I do? what can I do?" cried Radha, wringing her hands. "He will die. Ho, Chimna!"
"Silence, Radha; for your life call no one. I will strike you if you do," he said, raising his arm. "Look, she is gone! she was there—there, even now. I turned away, for her eyes burned me; there was no love in them—none. She came and mocked me, and you are witness of it. Why did she come in the air? She is a spirit—a witch—and it is always thus. There—look——"
Radha looked tremblingly where he pointed. It was impossible not to be infected with the terror and misery of his face and voice. The room had open arches of wood on one side, across which heavy curtains were drawn; but they were partially open, and, looking through them, all she saw was the terraces of the houses of the town gradually descending into the great ravine: the crags and precipices of its further side: with the trees, and gilded spires and pinnacles of the temple between. Beyond these, the rugged mountain and the plain below, hazy with quivering light, and melting into the sky.
"You see nothing, sister?" he said. "No, she is gone now."