"Would she were dead—dead ere he came," Gunga muttered to herself. "He will not spare her now—ah me! not now: and in the heat and confusion of victory, who will care for her? All those she loved last, too, are dead—all gone—and that fair boy with the rest! Ah me, better she died! Tara, drink! here is water!"
A woman came with a brass vessel full, and helped Gunga to raise her up, while she poured some into her mouth, and sprinkled her face gently. They saw Tara heave a great sigh; and presently, as the woman fanned her with the end of her garment, she awoke and looked dreamily around her—first to the woman, then to Gunga, against whom she was reclining. Her first impulse was to rise, but in the attempt she sank down again, and buried her face in her hands.
"Why art thou here?" she cried piteously. "O Gunga, go? leave me." She did not yet comprehend what had been said of victory, for she made no allusion to it.
"No, Tara, not now," said the girl—"not now. I will tell thee why. Go," she continued to the woman. "You are kind. Go now. I have that to say to my sister which no one must hear. Go! We are priestesses, and will serve the Mother in our own fashion. But if I need shelter for her, wilt thou give it?"
"Ah," replied the dame, "we are poor people, and can do little; but the Máhá Ranee is kind and just—I will speak to her."
"True," replied Gunga absently; "if needs be, I will come to thee again—now, go. Tara!" she continued, stretching out her hands to her imploringly when the woman had gone out—"O Tara, look up! look up, and see if I be like what I was;—cast me not away now, for we are both in the like misery! O Mother!" she cried to the image on the altar, "bid her speak to me, ere it be too late;—bid her trust to me, and save herself! Tara, behold I kiss your feet; trust me now, as I swear on them not to fail you. No, no, never, never more—never more, except in death. See what I do!"
She arose, went to the shrine, and prostrated herself before it on her face, so that her hands embraced the feet of the image. "O, kill me, Mother—O, kill me, Mother!" Tara heard her cry, in a passionate burst of weeping; "kill me, if thou wilt, for touching thee, who am not worthy; but hear me, and help me to save Tara. She is thy child. O, let me save her for thee. I will,—I will, if thou wilt bid her trust me, for I am not lying now. I am true to thee and to her!"
The words were almost inarticulate, and gasped or sobbed, rather than spoken. They fell strangely on Tara's ears as Gunga still moaned rather than spoke. "Mother—O Mother, I am true, I am not lying; bid her trust me! bid her trust me!"
It was impossible to resist them. Tara rose and went across the vestibule to her. "Gunga," she said, "get up, I am here: what wouldst thou of me?"
The girl arose, put away the dishevelled hair from her face, and again bowed before Tara, embracing her knees. She was not repulsed this time. The priest had watched the scene wonderingly—he could not understand it. Tara was standing beside the door of the shrine, the light from within streaming out upon her. Her slight figure was drawn up to its full height, and her beautiful features were calm—almost sublime in their expression. Lying at her feet, and clasping them, was the other girl, still moaning in apparent agony.