"I will die here,—I will not go from the Mother, Gunga," replied Tara. "I am her child now—only hers: let her do with me as she wills, I will not go. Save thyself, care not for me," and she arose and prostrated herself before the shrine. "O Mother," she cried piteously, "I will not leave thee again. Death or life, what matters it to me? let it be as thou wilt. I have promised not to leave thee, and I am here waiting." Then rising, she seated herself as she was used to do before the shrine, and spoke no more.
"I can at least die with thee, Tara; I will not leave thee," said Gunga. "Whatever comes, let it come to us both; I am as ready to die as thou art—I will not go."
They sat there long. The sun declined, and the evening was drawing in. Once only Gunga had gone out to see whether she could gain any intelligence, and had returned saying the doors of the temple enclosure were shut. The Brahmun priest had disappeared like the rest, but there were shouts as if of victory which rung through the building in bursts, evidently growing nearer. Tara seemed not to hear them. It might be that utter despair possessed her, or, as Gunga hoped, that some manifestation of the goddess was about to take place. She scarcely moved now, but when the shouts grew louder she shuddered, and drew the end of her garment more closely around her as if she were cold.
It was thus that the Máhá Ranee, Sivaji's mother, found her and Gunga as she entered with her attendants for the evening prayer and worship, and to give thanks for the victory.
As the lady had approached the temple, the attendant priest told her of Tara, and why she had been left there by the Shastree and Govind Rao, and the tale had excited her curiosity, if not her compassion.
"She is sitting there before the Mother," he said, "and does not speak. Perhaps she will answer you, lady, but it seems as though a fit were coming on her. I will tell her at least that you have come," and, stepping forward, he advanced to Tara and whispered in her ear.
The Máhá Ranee followed, and paused as she entered the vestibule. The light shone full upon Tara, and her expression of deep misery could not be mistaken. Long afterwards, the first sight of that pale, wan, despairing face recurred to the lady with pain, and she never forgot the look of hopeless grief which Tara had first turned upon her.
"There is no inspiration in that face," said the lady to the priest,—"none. It seems to me the Mother hath forsaken her. Of what is she accused?"
"She was taken from the Mussulman chief, we hear," said the Brahmun, "and was to have become a Mussulmani. They say, too, she is a sorceress, and does evil with her eyes; but Govind Rao placed her here, and knows about her."
"I fear her not," cried the Ranee, with flashing eyes. "Who is she, that she dare sit in my presence? Put her out! Away with thee, wench!" she continued to Tara, "get thee hence! If thou art forsworn, begone! The Mother hath drunk blood to-day, and will not spare thee! Take her away, Bheemee—she is an offence to us."