And again the next night Bedient came, but Gobind was away playing with the gods of his youth—just the old withered body there—and the dog whining.
But the third night, the eyes of Gobind filled with his young friend——
"You say, good father Gobind," Bedient said quickly, "that I shall come back here alone to die?"
"Yes," the Sannyasin answered simply, but a moment later, he shivered, and seemingly divined all that was in the young man's mind, for he added: "You will learn to look within for the woman…. You would not find favor—in finding her without…. It is not for you—the red desire of love!"
* * * * *
It was during these years in India that Bedient began to put down the thoughts which delighted him during the long rides through the forest; and something of the thrill of his reflections, as he watched old God-Mother from his cliff. He found great delight in this, and his mind was integrated by expression. He recalled many little pictures of the early years—not the actions, but the reflections of action. It was fascinating. He found that his journal would bulk big presently, so he took to polishing as he went along; chose the finest, toughest Indian parchment—and wrote finely as this print—for it was clear to him that he had entered upon what was to prove a life-habit.
The letters from Captain Carreras had become more frequent in late years; in fact, there was almost always a letter en route either from Preshbend or Equatoria…. The Captain wanted him to come; stronger and stronger became the call. So far as money was concerned, he had done extraordinarily well. He always wrote of this half-humorously…. At last when Bedient was beginning his seventh year in the Punjab, there came a letter which held a plaint not to be put aside.
Bedient was in his thirty-second year; and just at this time old Gobind left his body for a last time beneath the camphor-tree. The young man had sat before him the night before, and the holy man had told him in symbolism—that the poor murky river of his life had made its last bend through the forests, and was swiftly flowing into the sea of time and space. Though he sat long after silence had settled down, Bedient did not know (so softly and sweetly did the old saint depart) that the Sannyasin was tranced in death instead of meditation. It was not until the next morning, when he heard the Sikh women of the village weeping—one above all—that he understood. It was not a shock of grief to these women, for such is their depth that the little matters which concern all flesh and which are inevitable, cannot be made much ado of. Still it was feminine and beautiful to him, their weeping; and possibly the one who wept loudest had mothered old Gobind in her heart, and there was emptiness in the thought that she could not fill his begging-bowl again. Bedient, as well as others of the village, knew that to Gobind, death was a long-awaited consummation; that he was gone only from the physical eye of the village. That missed him—as did Bedient, who had loved to sit at the fleshly feet of the holy man…. But he loved all Preshbend, too.
And at length, he set out on foot for Lahore—often looking back.