The Shastree was puzzled, and rode on, musing much at the strangeness of the act, and unable to account for it satisfactorily. Such sacrifices, from such motives, were no doubt meritorious, but they were uncommon.
He was not far distant now from their destination, and, joining Anunda, who, riding a stout ambling pony, was forcing her way through the crowd, followed by the litter in which sat Radha, he bade her come on leisurely, and himself urged his horse forward as quickly as the crowded streets would allow, to his friend's house. Vishnu Pundit himself was standing at the door of the outer court opening into the street, across which some men were tying garlands of green leaves and flowers. Seeing the Shastree advancing, he came to him, and, assisting him to dismount, embraced him warmly.
"I received your note," he said; "but I have had no time to reply to it. I have no room for you, old friend, owing to the Sutee whom the Maharaja has sent to me—that is, not till to-morrow; but meanwhile my neighbour the Josee gives you one of the courts of his house. Take the ladies there," he added to an attendant, "as they arrive. But do you, Vyas Shastree, come with me. I must speak with you alone. Ah, we had mourned you dead—yet how wonderful it is that you are here, and to-day, too! Come, I have much to say to you that is strange—most strange."
The Shastree followed him curiously into an inner court—one like that in his own house at Tooljapoor, where he taught his pupils. Numbers of people were pressing through the outer court, bearing offerings for worship; but in the place they went to, they were alone, and the Pundit closed the door.
"Vyas Shastree," he said, looking at him intently as they sat down, and speaking with irrepressible concern and grief in his voice, "O friend! O dear old friend! I have dark news for thee to-day. Alas! and woe to me that I have to tell it! Hast thou a daughter named Tara?"
"I have come to seek her—followed her thus far—what of her?" replied the Shastree, sickening with apprehension—"what of her?"
"She was a priestess of Toolja Máta at Tooljapoor, was she not?" asked the Pundit.
"She was so, friend, and the Mussulmans carried her off. But they spared her honour! O, say they spared her honour!" he exclaimed piteously, and stretching forth his hands.
"She was an honoured guest with them, friend, and would that——O, how shall I say the rest?" he thought,—"how explain this misery? Alas, what evil fate hath sent him to-day!"
"Thou art keeping something from me," said the Shastree, striving to be calm. "If—if Tara—my daughter——What is it, O friend? we have suffered much suspense, much anxiety:—for her sake have taken this weary journey; and we hoped to have found her here among friends, perhaps with thee. What hast thou to say of her? Did they not give her up, as we heard they would? Have—they——"