Rawder’s hand was raised in the sunlight. It was slender, nervously responsive to his emotion—but whole, whole! A little way off they halted, inspired by a glimpse of his profile.... It was the face of the man who had climbed to the roof of the world, lived through ice and flame; it was sun-darkened, storm-bitten, gaunt from suffering under the irons of self-repression, mystical in its manifestation of a cosmos within. It was the face of an exile who has felt the hate of man, the absence of women, and the Presence of God. And it was whole, whole.
He turned suddenly and saw the two standing together. There was something beautiful in his bewilderment, and in the expression of sadness which followed—since this was to be his last meeting with Routledge. A gesture, and the lowly ones were dismissed; and when the temple-court was empty, save for the Three—they joined hands.
Whispering, he led them into the temple gardens at the edge of the lake. The water was glorified in the sunset, and by the stones of his doorway the drowsy lilies drank the last rays. Magicians of ancient and wondrous patience had conserved the verdure and mastered the flowerings. There were none but flawless leaves and none but classic blooms. The pebbles on the shore had been touched into mosaics, and the vines which fixed the coolness in the stones of his dwelling had seemingly been guided into perfection by fingers in the night. Out of love his people served him; out of love they had charmed a fountain from the ground near his doorway; placed sounding-shells to lure music from the dropping water, and forced Emperor roses lavishly to arise and shelter and perfume his bathing-place.
“All these things my people have done for me, blessed friends,” Rawder said, “and all I asked when I came was to share a hut with the least of them.”
At the arbored doorway, he stepped aside and bowed their entrance. Far within a figure moved to and fro without a sound.
The perfection of the little home in the gardens of the temple was like singing in the hearts of the lovers.... As they entered, the Name, marvellously intoned, reached them from the figure which had moved but a moment before, but they could not see clearly in the dim twilight. When the candles were brought, Routledge found that it was Sekar, the Hindu Master. So ancient and withered was he, that his sitting erect on a mat of kusa grass seemed a miracle.
Rawder served them with food and drink; and afterward, outside, the Three talked long at the edge of the fountain. Always, from within, they heard the ineffable syllable, OM, at intervals, like a distant sound of the sea on a rocky beach. From the huts of the afflicted there was steady silence.
At last the meditation was broken, and they heard quaveringly from Sekar within these words in Tibetan. Rawder translated hastily:
“My son, my chela!... To-morrow we arise and ascend the goodly mountains to our Long Home. We are very weary, and I have seen that our work is finished here.”
The Three entered. Sekar beheld them. After a moment, Sekar spoke: