 Section 7 of the Ninth Vibration and Other Stories by Al Adams Beck. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. On the further bank a young man in a strange diadem or mitre of jewels, bare-breasted and beautiful, stood among the flowering oleanders, one foot lightly crossed over the other as he stood. He was like an image of pale radiant gold, and I could have sworn that the light came from within rather than fell upon him, for the night was very dark. He held the flute to his lips, and as I looked I became aware that the noise of the rushing water was tapering off into a murmur scarcely louder than that of a summer bee in the heart of a rose. Therefore the music rose like a fountain of crystal drops, cold, clear, and of an entrancing sweetness, and the face above it was such that I had no power to turn my eyes away. How shall I say what it was? All I had ever desired, dreamed, hoped, prayed, looked at me from that remote beauty of the eyes, and with the most persuasive gentleness and treated me rather than commanded to follow fearlessly and win. But these are words, and words shaped in the rough mold of thought cannot convey the deep desire that would have hurled me to his feet if Vanna had not held me with a firm restraining hand. Looking up in adoring love to the dark face was a ring of woodland creatures. I thought I could distinguish the white clouded robe of a snow leopard, the soft clumsiness of a young bear, and many more. But these shifted and blured like dream creatures. I could not be sure of them nor to find their numbers. The eyes of the player looked down upon their passionate delight with careless kindness. Dim images passed through my mind. Orpheus. No. This was no Greek pan, yet again, no. Where were the pipes, the goat hooves, the young Dionysus? No. There were strange jewels instead of his vines. And then Vanna's voice said, as if from a great distance, Krishna, the beloved. And I said aloud, I see. And even as I said it, the whole picture blurred together like a dream, and I was alone in the pavilion, and the water was foaming past me. Had I walked in my sleep, I thought, as I made my way back. As I gained the garden gate before me like a snowflake, I saw the nine-fold flower. When I told her the next day, speaking of it as a dream, she said simply, They have opened the door to you. You will not need me soon. I shall always need you. You have taught me everything. I could see nothing last night until you took my hand. I was not there, she said, smiling. It was only the thought of me. And you can have that when I am very far away. I was sleeping in my tent. What you called in me, then, you can always call, even if I am dead. That is a word which is beginning to have no meaning for me. You have said things to me, no, thought them, that have made me doubt if there is room in the universe for the thing we have called death. She smiled her sweet wise smile. Where we are, death is not. Where death is, we are not. But you will understand better soon. Our march, curving, took us by the mogul gardens of Aqabaal and the glorious ruins of the Great Temple at Martund and sowed down Tobawan in its crystal waters and the loveliest camping ground beside them. A mighty grove of chanar trees, so huge that I felt as if we were in a great sea cave where the air is dyed with the deep shadowy green of the inmost ocean, and the murmuring of the myriad leaves was like a sea at rest. I looked up into the noble height, and my memory of Westminster dwindled, for this led on and up to the infinite blue, and at night the stars hung like fruit upon the branches. The water ran with a great joyous rush of release from the mountain behind, but was first received in a broad basin full of sacred fish and reflecting a little temple of Mahaswara and one of Surya the Sun. Here in this basin the water lay pure and still as an ecstasy, and beside it was musing the young Brahmin priest who served the temple. Once I had joined Vanna I had begun with her help to study a little Hindustani, and with an aptitude for language could understand here and there. I caught a word or two as she spoke with him that startled me, when the high-bred ascetic face turned serenely upon her and he addressed her as, my sister, adding a sentence beyond my learning, but which she was willingly translated later. May he who sits above the mysteries have mercy upon thy rebirth! She said afterwards, How beautiful some of these men are! It seems a different type of beauty from ours, nearer to nature and the old gods. Look at that priest, the tall figure, the clear all of skin, the dark-level brows, the long lashes that make a soft gloom about the eyes, eyes that have the fathomless depth of the deers, the proud arch of the lip. I think there is no country where aristocracy is more clearly marked than in India. The Brahmins are aristocrats of the world. You see it as a religious aristocracy as well. It has everything that can foster pride and exclusiveness. They spring from the mouth of deity. They are his word incarnate. Many kings are of the Brahmin caste, and the Brahmins look down upon them from the sovereign heights. I have known men who would not eat with their own rulers who would have drunk the water that washed the Brahmin's feet. She took me that day, the Brahmin with us, to see a cave in the mountain. We climbed up the face of a cliff to where a little tree grew on a ledge and a black mouth yawned. We went in, and often it was so low we had to stoop, leaving the sunlight behind until it was like a dim eye glimmering in the velvet blackness. The air was dank and cold and presently obscene with the smell of bats and alive with their wings as they came sweeping about us, gibbering and squeaking. I thought of the rush of the ghosts, blown like dead leaves in the odyssey, and then a small rock chamber branched off, and in this, lit by a bit of burning wood, we saw the bones of a holy man who lived and died there four hundred years ago. Think of it! He lived there always, with the slow dropping of water from the dead weight of the mountain above his head, drop by drop tolling the minutes away, the little groping feet through the cave that would bring him food and drink, hurrying into the warmth and sunlight again, and his only companion, the sacred lingen, which means the creative energy that sets the world's dancing for joy around the sun, that and the black solitude to sit down beside him. Surely his bones can hardly be drier and colder now than they were then. There must be strange ecstasies in such a life, wild visions in the dark, or it could never be endured. And so, in marches of about ten miles a day, we came to Palgum and on the banks of the dancing lidar. There was now only three weeks left of the time she had promised. After a few days at Palgum, the march would turn and bend its way back to Srinagar, and to what? I could not believe it was to separation. In her lovely kindness she had grown so close to me that even for the sake of friendship I believed her paths must run together to the end. And there were moments when I could still half convince myself that I had grown as necessary to her as she was to me. No, not as necessary, for she was life and soul to me, but a part of her daily experience that she valued and would not easily part with. That evening we were sitting outside the tents near the campfire of pines and logs and cones, and leaping flames making the night beautiful, with gold and leaping sparks, in an attempt to reach the mellow splendors of the moon. The men in various attitudes of rest were lying about, and one had been telling a story which had just ended in excitement and loud applause. These are Mohammedans, said Vanna, and it is only a story of love and fighting like the Arabian Nights. If it had been Hindus it might well have been of Krishna or of Rama and Sitta. Their faith comes from an earlier time and they still see visions. The Moslem is a hard practical faith for men, men of the world too. It is not visionary now, though at once had its great mysteries. I wish you would tell me what you think of the visions or apparitions of the gods that are seen here. Is it all illusion? Tell me your thought. How difficult that is to answer. I suppose if love and faith are strong enough they will always create the vibrations to which the greater vibrations respond, and so make God in their own image at any time or place. But that they call up what is the truest reality I have never doubted. There is no shadow without a substance. The substance is beyond us, but under certain conditions the shadow is projected and we see it. Have I seen or has it been dream? I cannot tell. It may have been the impress of my mind on yours, for I see such things always. You say I took your hand? Take it now. She obeyed and instantly as I felt the firm, cool clasp I heard the rain of music through the pines. The flute player was plassing. She dropped at smiling and the sweet sound ceased. You see? How can I tell what you have seen? You will know better when I am gone. You will stand alone then. You will not go. You cannot. I have seen how you have loved all this wonderful time. I believe it has been as dear to you as to me, and every day I have loved you more. I depend upon you for everything that makes life worth living. You could not, you who are so gentle, you could not commit the senseless cruelty of leaving me when you have taught me to love you with every beat of my heart. I have been patient. I have held myself in, but I must speak now. Marry me and teach me. I know nothing. You know all I need to know. For pity's sake be my wife. I had not meant to say it. It broke for me in the firelight moonlight with the power that I could not stay. She looked at me with the disarming gentleness. Is this there? Do you remember how at Peshawar I told you I thought it was the dangerous experiment, and that it would make things harder for you? But you took the risk, like a brave man, because you felt that there were things to be gained—knowledge, insight, beauty. Have you not gained them? Yes, absolutely. Then, is all lost if I go? Not all, but lost I dare not face. I will tell you this. I could not stay if I would. Do you remember the old man on the way to Varanag? He told me that I must very soon take up an entirely new life. I have no choice, though if I had I would still do it. There was silence, and down along arcade, without any touch of her hand, I heard the music receding with exquisite modulations to a very great distance, and between the pillared stems I saw a faint light. Do you wish to go? Entirely, but I shall not forget you, Stephen. I will tell you something. For me, since I came to India, the gate that chuts us out at birth has opened. How shall I explain? Do you remember Kipling's finest story in the world? Yes, fiction. Not fiction, true, whether he knew it or no. But for me the door has opened wide. First, I remembered piecemeal, with wide gaps, then more connectedly. Then, at the end of the first year, I met one day at Kaupor, an ascetic, and an old man of great beauty and wisdom, and he was able, with his own knowledge, to enlighten mine, not holy, much has come since then. Has come, some of it in ways you would not understand now, but much might by direct sight and hearing. Long, long ago, I lived in Peshawar, and my story was the sorrowful one. I will tell you a little before I go. I hold you to your promise. It is there I cannot believe when you tell me. But does that life put you all together away from me? Was there no place for me in any of your memories that has drawn us together now? Give me a little hope that in the eternal pilgrimage there is some bond between us, and some rebirth where we may meet again. I will tell you that also before we part, I have grown to believe that you do love me, and therefore love something which is infinitely above me. And do you love me at all? Am I nothing, Vanna? Vanna? My friend, she said, and laid her hand on mine. A silence, and then she spoke very low. You must be prepared for very great change, Stephen, and yet believe that it does not really change things at all. See how even the gods pass and do not change. The early gods of India are gone, and Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna have taken their places and are one and the same. The old Buddhist stories say that in heaven the flowers of the garland the god-war are withered, his robes of majesty are waxed old and faded, he falls from his highest state and is reborn into a new life. But he still lives in the young god who is born among men. The gods cannot die, nor can we nor anything that has life. Now I must go in. I sat long in the moonlight, thinking. The whole camp was sunk in sleep, and the young dawn was waking upon the peaks when I turned in. The days that were left we spent in wandering up the Lita river to the hills that are the first ramp of the ascent to the great heights. We found the damp corners where the mushrooms grow like pearls, the mushrooms of which she said, to me they have always been fairy things. To see them in the silver-gray dew of the early mornings, mysteriously there like the manna in the desert, they are elfin plunder, and as a child I was half afraid of them. No wonder they are the darlings of folklore, especially in Celtic countries where the little people move in the starlight. Strange to think that they are here, too, among strange gods. We climbed to where the wild peonies bloom in glory that few I see and the rosy beds of the wild sweet strawberry's ripen. Every hour brought with it some new delight, some exquisiteness of sight or of words that I shall remember forever. She sat one day on a rock, holding the sculptured leaves and massive seed-vessels of some glorious plant that the Kashmiris believe has magic virtues hidden in the seeds of pure rose embedded in the white dawn. If you fast for three days and eat nine of these in the night of no moon, you can rise on the air light as this'll down and stand on the peak of harmacol. And on harmacol, as you know, it is believed, the gods dwell. There was a man here who tried this enchantment. He was changed man forever after, wandering and muttering to himself and avoiding all human intercourse as far as he could. He was no Kashmiri, a yacht from the Punjab, and they showed him to me when I was here with the marons, and they told me he would speak to none. But I knew he would speak to me, and he did. Did he tell you anything of what he had seen in the high world up yonder? He said he had seen the dream of God. I could not get more than that. But there are many people here who believe that the universe as we know it is but an image in the dream of Ishvara, the universal spirit, in whom we are all the gods, and that when he ceases to dream we pass again into the night of Brahm, and all his darkness until the spirit of God moves again on the face of the waters. There are few temples to Brahm. He is above and beyond all direct worship. Do you think he had seen anything? What do I know? Will you eat the seeds? The night of no moon will soon be here. She held out the seed-vessels, laughing. I write that down, but how record the lovely light of kindliness in her eyes, the almost submissive gentleness that was yet a defense stronger than steel. I never knew, how should I, whether she was sitting by my side or heavens away from me in her own strange world, but always she was the sweetness that I could not reach, a cup of nectar that I might not drink, unalterably her own and never mine. And yet, my friend, she showed me the wild track up into the mountains where the pilgrims go to pay their devotions at the great gods shrine in the awful heights, regretting that we were too early for the most wonderful sight. Above where we were sitting the river fell in a tormented white cascade, crashing and feathering into spray dust of diamonds. An eagle was flying above it with a mighty spread of wings that seemed almost double-jointed in the middle. They curved and flapped, so wide and free. The fierce head was outstretched with the rake of a plundering galley as he swept down the wind, seeking his meat from God and passed majestic from our sight. The valley beneath us was littered with enormous boulders split from the ancient hollows of the hills. It must have been a great sight when the giants set them rundling down in work or play. I said this to Vanna, who was looking down upon it with meditative eyes. She roused herself. Yes, this really is giant land up here. Everything is so huge. And when they quarrel up in the heights in Jotunheim and the black storms come down the valleys, it is like colossal laughter or clumsy boisterous anger. And the frost giants are still at work up there with their great axes of frost and rain. They fling down the side of a mountain or make fresh ways for the rivers. About 60 years ago, far above here, they tore down a mountain side and dammed up the mighty Indus so that for months he was a lake shut back in the hills. But the river giants are no less strong up here in the heights of the world and lay brooding and biding as time. And then, when awful day, he tore the barrier down and roared down the valley, carrying death and ruin with him and swept away a whole sick army among other unconsidered trifles. That must have been a soul-shaking sight. She spoke on, and as she spoke, I saw, what are her words as I record them? Stray dead leaves pressed in a book that life and grace dead. Yet I record, for she taught me what I believe the world should learn, that the Buddhist philosophers are right when they teach that all forms of what we call matter are really but aggregates of spiritual units and that life itself is a curtain hiding reality as the vast veil of day conceals from our sight the countless orbs of space. So that the purified mind, even while prisoned in the body, may enter into union with the real, and, according to attainment, see it as it is. She was an interpreter because she believed this truth profoundly. She saw the spiritual essence beneath the lovely illusion of matter, and the air about her was radiant with the motion of strange forces, for which the dull world has many names aiming indeed at the truth but falling, oh, how far short of her calm perception. She was indeed of a household higher than the household of faith. She had received enlightenment. She beheld with open eyes. Next day our camp was struck, and we turned our faces again to Srinagar and to the day of parting. I sat down but one strange incident out of our journey, of which I did not speak even to her. We were camping at Bijbihara, waiting our houseboat, and the sight was by the Maharaja's lodge above the little town. It was midnight, and I was sleepless. The shadow of the near future was upon me. I wandered down to the lovely old wooded bridge across the jellum, where the strong young trees grew up from the piles. Beyond it the moon was shining on the ancient Hindu remains so close to the new temple, and as I stood on the bridge I could see the figure of a man in deepest meditation by the ruins. He was no European. I saw the straight, dignified folds of the robes. But it was not surprising he should be there, and I should have thought no more of it had I not heard at that instant from the further side of the river the music of the flute. I cannot hope to describe that music to any who have not heard it. Suffice it to say that where it calls, he who hears must follow, whether in the body or the spirit. Nor can I tell in which I followed. One day it will call me across the river of death, and I shall forward it, or sink in the immeasurable depths, and either will be well. But immediately I was on the other side of the river, standing by the stone bowl of Shiva, where he kneels before the symbol, and looking steadfastly upon me a few paces away was a man in the dress of a Buddhist monk. He wore the yellow robe that leaves one shoulder bare. His head was bare also, and he held in one hand a small bowl like a stemless chalice. I knew I was seeing a very strange, inexplicable sight, one that some cashmere should be incredible, but I put wonder aside, for I knew now that I was moving in the sphere where the incredible may well be the actual. His expression was of the most unbroken calm. If I compare it to the passionless gaze of the sphinx I misrepresent, for the riddle of the sphinx still awaits solution, but in this face was a noble acquiescence, and a content that had it vibrated must have passed into joy. Words were their equivalent to pass between us. I felt his voice. You have heard the music of the flute? I have heard. What has it given? A consuming longing. It is the music of the Eternal. The creeds and the faiths are the words that you men have set to that melody. Listening it will lead you to wisdom. Day by day you will interpret more surely. I cannot stand alone. You will not need. What has led you will lead you still. Through many births it has led you. How should it fail? What should I do? Go forward. What should I shun? Sorrow and fear. What should I seek? Joy. And the end? Joy. Wisdom. They are the light and dark of the divine. A cold breeze passed and touched my forehead. I was still standing in the middle of the bridge above the water gliding to the ocean, and there was no figure by the bull of Shiva. I was alone. I passed back to the tents with the shutter that is not fear but akin to death upon me. I knew I had been profoundly withdrawn from what we call actual life, and the return is dread. The days passed as we floated down the river to Srinagar, on board the Kendra, now lying in our first berth beneath the chainers, near and yet far from the city. The last night had come. Next morning I should begin the long ride to Varamula and beyond that barrier of the Happy Valley down to Muri and the Punjab. Where afterwards? I neither knew nor cared. My lesson was before me to be learned. I must try to detach myself from all I had prized, to say to my heart it was but alone and no gift, and to cling only to the imperishable. And did I as yet certainly know more than the ABC of the hard doctrine by which I must live? Devivra estifical oman kokur fatig, an immense weariness possessed me, a passive grief. Vanna would follow later with the wife of an Indian doctor. I believed she was bound for Lahore, but on that point she had not spoken, certainly, and I felt we should not meet again. And now my packing was finished, and as far as my possessions went, the little cabin had the soulless emptiness that comes with departure. I was enduring as best I could. If she held held, loyally to her packed, could I do less? Was she to blame for my wild hope that in the end she would relent and step down to the household levels of love? She sat by the window. The last time I should see the moonlit banks and her clear face against them. I made and won my fight for the courage of words. And now I finished everything, thank goodness, and we can talk. Vanna, you will write to me? Once I promise that. Only once? Why I counted on your words. I want to speak to you of something else now. I want to tell you a memory, but look first at the pale light behind the tak to sulliman. So I had seen it with her. So I should not see it again. We watched until a line of silver sparkled on the black water, and then she spoke again. Stephen, do you remember in the ruined monastery near Peshawah? How I told you of the young Abbot, who came down to Peshawar with the Chinese pilgrim, and he never returned. I remember there was a dancer. There was a dancer. She was Lilavanti, and she was brought there to trap him. But when she saw him she loved him, and that was his ruin and hers. Trickery he would have known and escaped. Love caught him in an unbreakable net, and they fled down the Punjab, and no one knew any more. But I know, for two years they lived together, and she saw the agony in his heart, the anguish of his broken vows, the face of the blessed one receding into an infinite distance. She knew that every day added a link to the heavy karma that was bound about the feet she loved, and her soul said, set him free, and her heart refused the torture. But her soul was stronger. She set him free. How? She took poison. He became an ascetic in the hills, and died in peace. But with a long expiation upon him, and she, I, am she. You, I heard my voice as if it were another man's. Was it possible that I, a man of the twentieth century, believed this impossible thing? Impossible, and yet, what had I learned, if not the unity of time, the illusion of matter? What is the twentieth century? What the first? Did they not lie before the supreme as one, and clean from our petty divisions? And I myself had seen what, if I could trust it, asserted the marvels that are no marvels to those who know. You loved him? I loved him. Then there is nothing at all for me. She resumed as if she had heard nothing. I have lost him for many years. He stepped above me at once, for he was clean gold, through he fell. And though I have followed, I have not found. But that Buddhist beyond Islamabad, you shall hear now what he said. It was this. The shut door opens, and this time he awaits. I cannot yet say all it means, but there is no Lahore for me. I shall meet him soon. Vanna, you would not harm yourself again. However I should not meet him. But you will see. Now I can talk no more. I will be there to-morrow when you go, and I will ride with you to the poplar road. She passed like a shadow into her little dark cabin, and I was left alone. I will not dwell on that black loneliness of the spirit, for it has passed. It was the darkness of hell, a madness of jealousy, and could have no enduring life in any heart that had known her. But it was death while it lasted. I had moments of horrible belief, of horrible disbelief. But however it might be, I knew that she was out of reach forever. Near me yes, but only as the silver image of the moon floated in the water by the boat, with the moon herself cold myriads of miles away. I will say no more of that last eclipse of what she had brought me. The bright morning came, sunny as if my joys were beginning instead of ending. Vanna mounted her horse and led the way from the boat. I cast one long look at the little kind, Dernath, and the home of those perfect weeks of such joy and sorrow as would have seemed impossible to me in the chrysalis of my former existence. Little Kedra stood crying bitterly on the bank. The kindly folk who had served us were gathered saddened and quiet. I set my teeth and followed her. How dear she looked, how kind, how gentle her appealing eyes as I drew up us side her. She knew what I felt. She knew that the sight of little Kedra crying as he said good-bye was the last pull at my sore heart. Still she rode steadily on, and still I followed, once she spoke. Stephen, there was a man in Peshawar kind and true, who loved that little Avante, who had no heart for him. And when she died, it was in his arms, as a sister might cling to a brother, for the man she loved had left her. It seems that will not be in this life, but do not think I have been so blind that I did not know my friend. I could not answer. It was the realization of the utmost I could hope, and it came like lightning to my spirit. Better that bond between us, slight as most men might think it, than the dearest and closest with a woman, not Banna. It was the first thrill of a new joy in my heart. The first, I thank the infinite, of many and steadily growing joys and hopes that cannot be uttered here. I bent to take the hand she stretched to me, but even as they touched I saw, passing behind the trees by the road, the young man I had seen in the garden at Verneg, most beautiful, in the strange mitre of his jewel-diadem. His flute was at his lips, and the music rang out sudden and crystal clear, as though a woodland god were passing to awaken all the joys of the dawn. The horses heard it too. In an instant hers had swerved wildly, and she lay on the ground at my feet. The music had ceased. Days had gone before I could recall what had happened then. I lifted her in my arms, and carried her into the rust house near at hand, and the doctor came and looked grave, and a nurse was sent from the mission hospital. No doubt all was done that was possible, but I knew from the first what it meant and how it would be. She lay in a white stillness, and the room was quiet as death. I remembered with unspeakable gratitude later that the nurse had been merciful, and had not sent me away. So Vanna lay all day and through the night, and when the dawn came again she stirred and motioned with her hand, although her eyes were closed. I understood, and kneeling, I put my hand under her head and rested it against my shoulder. Her faint voice murmured at my ear. I dreamed. I was in the pine wood at Poglem, and it was the night of no moon, and I was afraid for it was dark, but suddenly all the trees were covered with little lights like stars, and the greater light was beyond. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, beloved. And I looked beyond Peshawar, further than eyes could see, and in the ruins of the monastery where we stood, you and I, I saw him, and he lay with his head at the feet of the blessed one. That is well, is it not? Well, beloved. And it is well I go, is it not? It is well. Long silence, the first sun ray touched the floor, again the whisper. Believe what I have told you, for we shall meet again. I repeated, we shall meet again. In my arms she died. Later when all was over I asked myself if I believed this, and answered with full assurance, yes. If the story thus told sounds incredible, it was not incredible to me. I had had a profound experience. What is a miracle? It is simply the vision of the divine behind nature. It will come in different forms according to the eyes that see, but the soul will know that its perception is authentic. I could not leave Kashmir, nor was there any need. On the contrary, I saw that there was work for me here among the people she had loved, and my first aim was to fit myself for that, and for the writing I now felt was to be my career in life. After much thought I bought the little kinderness, and made it my home, very greatly to the satisfaction of little cadre and all the friendly people to whom I owed so much. Vanished cabin I made my sleeping-room, and it is the simple truth that the first night I slept in the place that was a temple of peace in my thoughts. I had a dream of worldless bliss, and starting awake for sheer joy I saw her face in the night, human and dear looking down upon me with that poignant sweetness which would seem to be the utmost revelation of love and pity, and as I stretched my hands another face dawned solemnly from the shadow beside her, with grave brows bent on mine, one I had known and seen in the ruins at Bij Bahara. Outside and very near I could hear the silver weaving of the flute, that in India is the symbol of the call of the Divine. A dream, yes, but it taught me to live. At first in my days of grief and loss I did but dream. The days were hard to endure. I will not dwell on that illusion of sorrow now, long dead. I lived only for the night. When sleep comes to close each difficult day, when night gives pause to the long watch, I keep, and all my bonds I need must lose apart, must off my will as raiment laid away. With the first dream that comes, with the first sleep, I run, I run. I am gathered to the heart. To the heart of her pity, thus for a while I lived, slowly I became conscious of her abiding presence about me, day or night. It grew clearer and closer. Like the austere Hippolytus to his unseen goddess I could say, Who am more to thee than other mortals are? Whose is the holy lot, as friend with friend to walk and talk with thee, hearing thy sweetmouth's music in my near, but thee beholding not? That was much, but later, in the sunshine was no bar. The bonds strengthened, and there have been days in the heights of the hills, in the depths of the woods, when I saw her as in life, passing at a distance, but real and lovely. Life? She had never lived as she did now, a spirit, freed and rejoicing. For me the door she had opened would never shut. The presences were about me, and I entered upon my heritage of joy, knowing that in Kashmir, the holy land of beauty, they walk very near, and lift up the folds of the dark, that the initiate may see the light behind. So I begun my solitary life in gladness. I wrote, aided by the little book she had left me, full of strangest stories, stranger by far than my own brain could conceive, some to be revealed, some to be hidden, and thus the world will one day receive the story of the dancer of Peshawar in her upward lives, that it may know, if it will, the death is nothing, for life and love are all. THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH VIBRATION AND OTHER STORIES It is recorded that when the Pearl Empress, his mother, asked of the philosophic Yellow Emperor, which he considered the most beautiful of the Imperial concubines, he replied instantly, the Lady Akui, and when the royal parent, in profound astonishment, demanded how this could be, having, regard to the exquisite beauties in question, the Emperor replied, I have never seen her. It was dark when I entered the dragon chamber, and dusk of dawn when I rose and left her. Then said the Pearl Princess, possibly the harmony of her voice sawless the Son of Heaven, but he replied, she spoke not. And the Pearl Empress rejoined. Her limbs, then, are doubtless softer than the King Fisher's plumage? But the Yellow Emperor replied, doubtless, yet I have not touched them. I was that night immersed in speculations on the Yin and the Yang. How then should I touch a woman? And the Pearl Empress was silent from very great amazement, not daring to question further, but marveling how this thing might be. When seeing this, the Yellow Emperor recited a poem to the following effect. It is said that power rules the world, and who shall gain say it. But loveliness is the head-jewel upon the brow of power. And when the Empress had listened with reverence to the Imperial poet, she quitted the August presence. Immediately, having entered her own palace of the tranquil motherly virtues, she caused the Lady Akui to be summoned to her presence, who came, habited in a purple robe and with pins of jade and coral in her hair. And the Pearl Empress considered her attentively, recalling the perfect features of the white-jade concubine, the ambrosial smile of the Princess of Feminine Prosperity, and the willow-leaf eyebrows of the Lady of Chen, and her astonishment was excessive because the Lady Akui could not in beauty approach any one of these ladies. Reflecting further, she then placed her behind the screen and summoned the court artist, Luo Cheng, who had been formerly commissioned to paint the heavenly features of the Emperor's ladies, mirrored in still water, though he had naturally not been permitted to view the beauties themselves. Of him the Empress demanded, who is the most beautiful, which is the most priceless jewel of the dwellers in the Dragon Palace. And with humility, Luo Cheng replied, what mortal man shall decide between the white crane and the swan, or between the peony flower and the lotus? And having thus said, he remained silent, and in him was no help. Finally, and after exhortation, the Pearl Empress condescended to threaten him with the loss of the head so useless to himself and to Her Majesty. Then, in great fear and haste, he replied, of all the flowers that adorn the Garden of the Sun of Heaven, the Lady Akui is the fittest to be gathered by the Imperial Hand, and this is my deliberate opinion. Now hearing this statement, the Pearl Empress was submerged in bewilderment, knowing that the Lady Akui had modestly retired when the artist had depicted the reflection of the assembled loveliness of the inner chambers, as not counting herself worthy of portraiture, and her features were therefore unknown to him. Nor could the Empress further question the artist, for when she had done so he replied only, this is the secret of the Sun of Heaven, and having gained permission he swiftly departed. Nor could the Lady Akui herself aid her Imperial Majesty, for on being questioned, she was overwhelmed with modesty and confusion, and with stammering lips could only repeat. This is the secret of His Divine Majesty, imploring with the utmost humility, forgiveness from the Imperial Mother. The Pearl Empress was unable to eat her supper. In vain were spread before her the delicacies of the Empire. She could but trifle with a shark's fin and a silver-bar fungus, and a dish of slugs entrapped upon roses, with a dew-like pearls upon them. Her burning curiosity had wholly deprived her of appetite. Nor could the amusing exertions of the palace mimes, or a lantern-fate upon the lake restore her to any composure. This circumstance will cause my flight on the dragon. Death, she said to herself, unless I succeed in unveiling the mystery. But therefore should be my next proceeding. And so, deeply reflecting, she caused the Chief of the Unix to summon the Princess of Feminine Propriety, the White Jade Concubine, and all the other exalted beauties of the Heavenly Palace. In due course of time these ladies arrived, paying suitable respect and abesience to the Mother of His Divine Majesty. They were resplendent in Kingfisher ornaments, in jewels of jade, crystal and coral, in robes of silk and gauze, and still more resplendent in charms, but not the celestial empire itself could equal, setting aside entirely all countries of the foreign barbarians. And in grace and elegance of manners, in skill in the arts of poetry and the lute, what could surpass them? Like a pter of flowers they surrounded her majesty, and awaited her pleasure with a perfect quorum. And having saluted them with affability, she thus addressed them. Lovely ones! Ladies distinguished by the particular attention of your sovereign and mine, I have sent for you to resolve a doubt and a difficulty. On questioning our sovereign, as to whom he regarded as the loveliest of his garden of beauty, he benignly replied, The Lady Akui is incomparable. And though this may well be, he further graciously added that he had never seen her. Nor on pursuing the subject could I learn the imperial reason. The artist Luo Cheng followed in his master's footsteps. He also never having seen the favored lady. And he and she replied to me that this is an imperial secret. Declare to me therefore if your purse capacity and the feminine interest which every lady properly takes in the other can unravel this mystery, for my liver is tormented with anxiety beyond measure. As soon as the pearl empress had spoken she realized that she had committed a great indiscretion. The babble of voices, of cries, questions and contradictions instantly arose. Decorum was abandoned. The Lady of Chen swooned. Nor could she be revived for an hour. And the princess of feminine propriety and the white jade concubine could be dragged apart only by the united efforts of six of the palace matrons. So great was their fury, the one with the other, each accusing each of encouragement to the Lady Akui's pretensions. So also was the remaining ladies. Shrieks resounded through the ha of virtuous tranquility, and when the pearl empress attempted to pour oil on the troubled waters by speaking soothing and comfortable words the august voice was entirely inaudible in the tumult. All sought at length and united in dignation for the Lady Akui, but she had modestly withdrawn to the pearl pavilion in the imperial garden and, foreseeing anxieties, had there secured herself on hearing the opening of the royal speech. Finally the ladies were led away by their attendance, weeping, lamenting, raging, according to their several dispositions, and the pearl empress, left with her own maidens, beheld the floor strewn with jade pins, kingfisher and coral jewels, and even with fragments of silk and gauze. Nor was she any nearer to the solution of the desired secret. That night she tossed upon a bed sleepless, though heaped with down, and her mind raged like a fire up and down, all possible answers to the riddle, but none would serve. Then at the dawn, raising herself on one august elbow, she called to her venerable nurse and foster mother, the Lady Ma, wise and resourceful in the affairs and difficulties of women, and, repeating the circumstances, demanded her counsel. The Lady Ma, considering the matter long and deeply, slowly replied, This is a great riddle and dangerous, for to intermeddle with the divine secrets is the high road to the yellow springs, death. But the child of my breasts and my exalted mistress shall never ask in vain, for a thwarted curiosity is as dangerous as a suppressed fever. I will conceal myself nightly in the dragon bed-chamber, and this will certainly unveil the truth. And if I perish, I perish. It is impossible to describe how the Empress heaped Lady Ma with costly jewels and silken brocades and tales of silver beyond measuring, how she placed on her breast the amulet of jade that had guarded herself from all evil influences, how she called the ancestral spirits to witness that she would provide for the Lady Ma's remotest descendants if she lost her life in this sublime devotion to her duty. That night Lady Ma concealed herself behind the imperial couch in the dragon-chamber to await the coming of the Son of Heaven. Slowly dripped the water-clock as the minutes fled away, sorely ached the venerable limbs of the Lady Ma as she crouched in the shadows and saw the rising moons scattering silver throughout the elegant traceries of carved ebony and ivory, wildly beating her heart as delicately tripping footsteps approached the dragon-chamber and the Princess of Feminine Prosperity, attended by her maidens, ascended to the imperial couch and hastily dismissed them. Yet no sweet repose awaited this favored Lady. The Lady Ma could hear her smothered sobs, her muttered exclamations. Nay could even feel the couch itself tremble as the Princess uttered the hatred name of Lady Akui, the poison of jealousy running in every vein. It was impossible for Lady Ma to decide which was the most virulent, this or the poison of curiosity in the heart of the Pearl Empress, though she loved not the Princess, she was compelled to pity such suffering. But all thought was banished by the approach of the Yellow Emperor, prepared for repose and unattended in simple but divine grandeur. It cannot indeed be supposed that a Celestial Emperor is human. Yet there was mortality in the start with which his Augustus gave when the Princess of Feminine Prosperity, flinging herself from the dragon-couch, threw herself at his feet and with tears that flowed like that river known as the Sorrow of China, demanded to know what she had done that another should be preferred before her, reciting in frantic haste such imperfections of the Lady Akui's appearance as she could recall or invent in the haste of that agitating moment. That one of her eyes is larger than the other, no human being can doubt Saad the Lady, and surely your divine majesty cannot be aware that her hair reaches but to her waist, and that there is a brown mole on the nape of her neck? When she sings, it resembles the croak of a crow. It is true that most of the palace ladies are chosen for anything but beauty, yet she is the most ill-favored. And is it this, this bat-faced lady who is preferred to me? Would I had never been born, yet even your Majesty's own lips have told me I am fair. The Yellow Emperor supported the form of the Princess in his arms. There are moments when even a son of heaven is but human. Fair is the rainbow, he murmured, and the Princess faintly smiled, then gathering the resolution of the philosopher he added manfully. But the Lady Akui is incomparable, and the reason is the Lady Ma eagerly stretched her head forward with a hand to either ear. But the Princess of feminine propriety, with one shriek, had swooned, and in the hurry of summoning attendance and causing her to be conveyed to her own apartments, that precious sentence was never completed. Still the Lady Ma groveled behind the dragon-couch, as the son of heaven, left alone, approached the veranda, and apostrophizing the moon, murmured, O loveliest pale-watcher of the destinies of men, illuminate the beauty of the Lady Akui, and grant that I, who have never seen that beauty, may never see it, but remain its constant admirer. So saying he sought his solitary couch and slept, all the Lady Ma in a torment of bewilderment glided from the room. The matter remained in suspense for several days. The white-jade concubine was the next Lady commanded to the dragon-chamber, and again the Lady Ma was in her post of observation. Much she heard, much she saw, that was not to the point, but the scene ended as before by the dismissal of the Lady in tears, and the departure of the Lady Ma in ignorance of the secret. The Emperor's peace was ended. The singular circumstance was that the Lady Akui was never summoned by the Yellow Emperor. Eagerly as the Empress watched, no token of affection for her was ever visible. Nothing could be detected. It was inexplicable. Finally devoured by curiosity that gave her no respite. She resvolved on a stratagem that should dispel the mystery, though it carried with it the risk on which she trembled to reflect. It was the afternoon of a languid summer day, and the Yellow Emperor, almost unattended, had come to pay a visit of filial respect to the Pearl Empress. She received him with a ceremony due to her sovereign in the porcelain pavilion of the Eastern Gardens, with the lotus-fish ponds before them, and a faint breeze occasionally tinkling the crystal wind-bells that decorated the shrubs on the cloud and dragon-rod slopes of the marble approach, a bird of brilliant plumage uttered a cry of reverence from its gold cage as the Son of Heaven entered. As was his occasional custom, and after suitable inquiries as to his parents' health, the attendants were all dismissed out of earshot, and the Emperor leaned on his cushions and gazed reflectively into the sunshine outside. So had the court artist represented him as the incarnation of philosophic calm. These gardens are fair, said the Empress after a respectful silence, moving her fan illustrated with the emblem of immortality, the Hobart. Fair indeed, returned the Emperor, it might be supposed that all sorrow and disturbance would be shut without the forbidden precincts. Yet it is not so. And though the figures of my ladies moving among the flowers appear at this distance instinct with joy, yet he was silent. They know not, said the Empress with solemnity, that death entered the forbidden precincts but last night. A disembodied spirit has returned to its place and doubtless exists in bliss. Indeed, returned the Yellow Emperor with indifference, yet if the spirit is absorbed into the source once it came, and the bones have crumpled into nothingness, where does the ego exist? The dead are venerable, but no longer of interest. Not even when they were loved in life, said the Empress, caressing the bird in the cage with one jeweled finger, but attentively observing her son from the corner of her August eye. They were, they are not, he remarked, centesiously, and stifling a yawn, it was a drowsy afternoon. But who is it that has abandoned us? Surely not the Lady Ma. Your Majesty's faithful foster mother. A younger, a lovelier spirit has sought the Yellow Springs, replied the trembling Empress. I regret to inform Your Majesty that a sudden convulsion last night deprived the Lady a cooie of life. I would not permit the news to reach you lest it should break your August night's rusts. There was a silence. Then the Emperor turned his eyes serenely upon his Imperial Mother, that the statement of my August parent is merely, let us say, allegoric, does not detract from its interest. But had the Lady a cooie and truth departed to the Yellow Springs, I should nonetheless have received the news without uneasiness. What though the sunset is not the memory of his light all surpassing, no longer could the Pearl Empress endure the excess of her curiosity. Deeply kowtowing, imploring pardon with raised hands and tears, which no son dare neglect, she besought the Emperor to enlighten her as to this mystery, recounting his praises of the Lady and his admission that he had never beheld her and all the circumstances connected with this remarkable episode. She omitted only, from considerations of delicacy and others, the vigils of the Lady Ma in the Dragon Chamber. The Emperor, sighing, looked upon the ground, and for a time was silent. Then he replied as follows, willingly would I have kept silence, but what child dare withstand the plea of the parent? Is it necessary to inform the Heavenly Empress that beauty seen is beauty made familiar, and that familiarity is the foe of admiration? How is it possible that I should see the Princess of Feminine Propriety, for instance, by night and day without becoming aware of her imperfections as well as her graces? How awaken the night without hearing the snoring of the White Jade concubine, and considering the mouth from which it issues as less lovely? While partake of the society of any woman without finding her chattering as the crane, avid of admiration, jealous, destructive of philosophy, fatal to composure, fevered with curiosity, a creature in short, a little above the given, but infinitely below the notice of the sage, save as a temporary measure of amusement in itself unworthy of the philosopher. The faces of all my ladies are known to me. All are fair and all alike, but one night, as I lay in the dragon-couch, lost in speculation, absorbed in contemplation of the yin and the yang, the night passed for the solitary dreamer as the dream. In the darkness of the dawn I rose still dreaming, and departed to the pearl pavilion in the garden, and there remained an hour viewing the sunrise and experiencing ineffable opinions on the destiny of man. Returning then to a couch which I believed to have been that of the solitary philosopher, I observed a depression where another form had lain, and in it a Jade hairpin such as worn by my junior beauties, petrified with amazement at the display of such reserve, such continents, such august self-restraint, I perceived that, lost in my thoughts, I had had an unimagined companion and that this gentle reminder was from her gentle hand, but whom I knew not. I then observed Glow Cheng, the court artist, in attendance, and immediately dispatched him to make secret inquiry and assert in the name and circumstances of that beauty who, unknown, had shared my vigil. I learned, on his return, that it was the lady Akui. I had entered the dragon chamber in a low moonlight, and guessed not her presence. She spoke no word. Finding her imperial master thus absorbed, she invited no attention, nor in any way obtruded her beauties upon my notice. Scarcely did she draw breath. Yet reflect upon what she might have done. The night passed, and I remained entirely unconscious of her presence, and out of respect she would not sleep, but remained reverently and modestly awake, assisting, if it may be so expressed, at a humble distance in the speculation which held me prisoner. What a pearl was here! On learning these details by Glow Cheng from her own rosy-at-lips, and remembering the unexampled temptation she had resisted, for, well, she knew that she had touched the emperor the philosopher had vanished. I despatched an august-rescript to this favored lady, conferring on her the degree of incomparable beauty of the first rank, on condition of secrecy. The pearl empress, still in deepest bewilderment, besought his majesty to proceed. He did so with his usual dignity. Though my mind could not wholly restrain its admiration, yet secrecy was necessary. Before had the facts been known, every lady, from the princess of feminine propriety to the junior beauty of the bed-chamber, would hence forward have observed only silence and a frigid decorum in the dragon bed-chamber. And though the emperor may be a philosopher, yet a philosopher is still a man, and there are moments when decorum, the emperor paused discreetly, then resumed. The world should not be composed entirely of aquees, yet in my mind I behold the incomparable lady fair beyond expression. Like the moon she sails glorious in the heavens to be adored only in vision as the one woman who could respect the absorption of the emperor, and of whose beauty, as she lay beside him, the philosopher could remain unconscious and, therefore, untroubled in body. To see her, to find her earthly, would be an experience for which the emperor might have courage, but the philosopher never, and attached to all this is immoral. The pearl-emperors urgently inquired its nature. Let the wisdom of my August parent discern it, said the emperor sententiously. And the future, she inquired. The, let us call it parables, said the emperor politely, with which your majesty was good enough to entertain me, has suggested a precaution to my mind. I see now a lovely form moving among the flowers. It is possible that it may be the incomparable lady, or that at any moment I may come upon her and my ideal be shattered. This must be safeguarded. I might command her retirement to her native province, but who shall ensure me against the weakness of my own heart demanding her return? No. But your majesty's words spoken, while in parable, be fulfilled in truth. I shall give orders to the chief eunuch that the incomparable lady tonight shall drink the draught of crushed pearls, and be thus restored to the sphere that alone is worthy of her. Thus are all anxiety soothed, and the honors offered to her virtuous spirit shall be a glorious repayment of the ideal that will ever illuminate my soul. The empress was speechless. She had borne the emperor in her womb, but the philosopher outsoared her comprehension. She retired, leaving his majesty in her reverie, endeavoring herself to grasp the moral of which she had spoken, for the guidance of herself and the lady's concern. But whether it inculated reserve, or the reverse in the dragon chamber, and what the imperial lady should follow as an example she was, to the end of her life, totally unable to say. Philosophy indeed walks on the heights. We cannot all expect to follow it. That night the incomparable lady drank the draught of crushed pearls. The princess of feminine propriety and the white-jade concubine, learning these circumstances, redoubled their charms, their coquetries, and their efforts to occupy what might be described as the inner sanctuary of the emperor's esteem. Both lived to a green old age, wealthy and honored, alike firm in the conviction that if the incomparable lady had not shown herself so superior to temptation that the emperor might have been on the whole better pleased, whatever the sufferings of the philosopher. Both lived to be the tyrants of many generations of beauties at the celestial court. Both were assiduous in their devotions before the spirit tablet of the departed lady, and in recommending her example of reserve and humility to every damsel whom it might concern. It will probably occur to the reader of this unique but voracious story, that there is more in it than meets the eye, and more than the one moral alluded to by the emperor according to the point of view of the different actors. To the discernment of the reader it must accordingly be left. End of the incomparable lady. Chapter 9 of the Ninth Vibration and Other Stories by L. Adams Beck The hatred of the queen, a story of Burma. Most wonderful is the Irawati, the mighty river of Burma. In all the world elsewhere is no such river, bearing the melted snows from its mysterious sources in the high places of the mountains. The dawn rises upon its leak-wide flood. The moon walks upon it with silver feet. It is the pulsing heart of the land. Living still, though so many rules and rulers have risen and fallen and beside it, their pumps and glories drifting like flotsam down the river to the eternal ocean that is the end of all. And the beginning. Dead civilizations strew its banks, dreaming in the torrid sunshine of glories that were, of bloodstained gold, jewels wept from woeful crowns, nightmare dreams of murder and terror, dreaming also of heavenly beauty, for the Lord Buddha looks down in the moonlight peace upon the land that left to kiss his footprints, that has laid its heart in the hand of the blessed one, and shares therefore in his bliss and content. The land of the Lord Buddha, where the myriad pagodas lift their golden flames of worship everywhere, and no idlest wind can pass but it ruffles the bells below the knees until they send forth their silver ripple of music to swell the hymn of praise. There is a little bay on the bank of the flooding river, a silent, deserted place of sand dunes and small hills. When a ship is in sight some porpo come and spread out the red lacquer that helps their scanty subsistence, and the people from the passing ship, land, and barter and in a few minutes are gone on their busy way, and silence settles down once more. They neither know nor care that nearby a mighty city spread its splendor for miles along the river bank, that the king known as the Lord of the Golden Palace, the Golden Foot, Lord of the White Elephant, held his state there with balls of magnificence, of sequest women, fawning courtiers, and all the riot and color of an eastern tyranny. How should they care? Now there are ruins. Ruins and the cobras slip in and out through the deserted holy places. They breed the writhing young in the sleeping chambers of queens, the tiger's mew in the moonlight, and the giant spider, more terrible than the cobra, strikes with its black poison claw, and paralyzing the life of the victim, sucks its brain with slow, less vicious pleasure. Are these foul creatures more dreadful than some of the men, the women, who dwelt in these palaces, the more evil because of the human brain that plotted and foresaw? That is known only to the mysterious law that in silence watches and decrees. But this is a story of the dead days of Pagan by the Irawati, and it will be shown that, as the lordess of the Lord Buddha grows up, a white splendor from the black mud of the depths, so also may the soul of a woman. In the days of the Lord of the White Elephant, the king Pagan men was a boy named Minden, son of Second Queen and the king. So at least it was said in the Golden Palace, but those who knew the secrets of such matters whispered that, when the king had taken her by the hand, she came to him no maid, and that the boy was the son of an Indian trader. Furthermore, it was said that she herself was woman of the Rajputs, knowledgeable in spells, incantations, and elemental spirits, such as the Balus that terribly haunt waste places, and all powers that move in the dark, and that thus she had won the king. Certainly she had been captured by the king's warboats off the coast from a trading ship bound for Cylon, and it was her story that, because of her beauty, she was sent thither to serve as concubine to the king, Tissa of Cylon. Being captured, she was brought to the Lord of the Golden Palace. The tongue she spoke was strange to all the fighting men, but it was wondrous to see how swiftly she learned the theirs and spoke it with a sweet ripple such as in the throat of a bird. She was beautiful exceedingly, with a color of pale gold upon her, and lengths of silk spun hair, and eyes like those of a jungle deer, and water might run beneath the arch of her foot without wetting it, and her breasts were like cloudy pillows where the sun couches at setting. Now at Pagan the name they called her was Dwaymenau, but her true name, known only to herself, was Sundari, and she knew not the law of the Blessed Buddha, but was a heathen accursed. From the strong hollow of her hand she held the heart of the king, so that at the birth of her son she had risen from a mere concubine to be the second queen and a power to whom all bowed. The first queen, Maya, languished in her palace, her pale beauty wasting daily, deserted and lonely, for she had been the light of the king's eyes until the coming of the Indian woman, and she loved her lord with great love, and was a noble woman brought up in honor and all things becoming a queen. But sigh as she would, the king never came. All night he lay in the arms of Dwaymenau, all day he sat beside her, whether at the great water pageants or at the festival when the dancing girls swayed and postured before him in her gilded chambers. Even when he went forth to hunt the tiger, she went with him as far as a woman may go, and then stood back only because he would not risk his jewel, her life. So all that was evil in the man she fostered, and all that was good she cherished, not at all, fearing lest he should return to the queen. At her will he had consulted Bahiaudah, the council of the Woongees or ministers concerning a divorce of the queen, but this they told him could not be, since she had kept all the laws of Manu, being faithful, noble, and beautiful, and having borne him a son. For before the Indian woman had come to the king, the queen had borne a son, Ananda, and he was pale and slender, and the king despised him because of the wiles of Dwaymenau, saying he was fit only to sit among the women, having the soul of a slave, and he laughed bitterly as the pale child crouched in the corner to see him pass. If his eyes had been clear, he would have known that here was no slave, but a heart as much greater than his own as the spirit is stronger than the body. But this he did not know, and he strode past with Dwaymenau's boy on his shoulder, laughing with cruel glee. And this boy, Minden, was beautiful and strong as his mother, pale olive aface, with the dark and crafty eyes of the cunning Indian traders, with black hair and body straight, strong and long in the leg, for his ears, apt at the beginnings of a bow, sword, and spear, full of promise if the promise was only words and looks. And so matters rested in the palace until Ananda had ten years and Minden nine. It was the warm and sunny winter and the days were pleasant, and on a certain day the queen, Maya, went with her ladies to worship the blessed one at the Taipano Temple, looking down upon the swiftly flowing river. The temple was exceedingly rich and magnificent, so gilded with pure gold leaf that it appeared of solid gold, and about the upper part were golden bells beneath the jeweled knee, which wafted very sweetly in the wind and gave forth a crystal-clear music. The ladies bore in their hands more gold leaf that they might acquire merit by offering this for the service of the master of the law, and indeed this temple was the offering of the queen herself, who, because she bore the name of the mother of the Lord, excelled in good works, and was the moon of this lower world in charity and piety. Though wan with grief and anxiety this queen was beautiful, her eyes, like mournful lakes of darkness, were lovely in the pale ivory of her face. Her lips were nobly cut and calm, and by the favor of the guardian gnats she was shaped with grace and health, a worthy mother of kings. Also she wore her jewels like a mighty princess, a magnificence to which all the people she code as she passed, folding their hands and touching their forehead while they bobbed down, kneeling. Before the colossal image of the holy one she made her offering and, attended by her women, she sat in meditation, drawing consolation from the tranquility above her and the silence of the shrine. This ended the queen rose and did obedience to the Lord, and retiring, paced back beneath the white canopy, and entered the courtyard where the palace stood, a palace of noble teakwood, brown and golden and carved like lace into strange fantasies of spires and pinnacles and branches, where gnats and tree spirits and bellows and swaying river maidens mingled and met amid fruits and leaves and flowers in a wild and joyous confusion. The faces, the blowing garments, whirled into points with the swiftness of the dance, were touched with gold and so glad was the building that it seemed as if a very light wind might whirl it to the sky, and even the sad queen stopped to rejoice in its beauty as it blossomed in the sunlight. And even as she paused, her little son, Ananda, rushed to meet her, pale in panting, and flung himself into her arms, with dry sobs like those of an overrun man. She soothed him until he could speak, and then the grief made way in a rain of tears. Minden has killed my dear! He bared his knife, slit his throat, and cast him in the ditch, and there he lies. There will he not lie long, shouted Minden, breaking from the palace to the group where all were silent now, for the worms will eat him, and the dogs pick clean his bones, and he will show his horns that his lords know more. If you loved him, white liver, you should have taught him better manners to his betters. With a stifled shriek, Ananda caught the slender knife from his girdle, and flew it Minden like a cat of the woods. Such things were done daily by young and old, and this was a long sorrow come to a head between the boys. Suddenly, lifting the hangings of the palace gateway before them, stood the mother of Minden, the Lady Duamino, pale as wool, having heard the shout of her boy, so that the two queens faced each other, each holding the shoulders of her son, and the ladies watched, mute as fishes, for it was years since these two had met. What have you done to my son? breathed Maya the queen, dry in the throat and all but speechless with passion. For indeed his face, for a child, was ghastly. Look at his knife! What would he do to my son? Duamino was stiff with hate, and spoke as to a slave. He has killed my dear and mocks me because I loved him. He is the devil in this place. Look at the devils in his eyes. Look quick before he smiles, my mother. And indeed, young as the boy was, an evil thing sat in either eye, and glittered upon them. Duamino passed her hand across his brow, and he smiled, and they were gone. The beast ran at me, and would have flung me with his horns. He said, looking up brightly at his mother. He had the madness upon him. I struck once, and he was dead. My father would have done the same. What would he not, said Queen Maya bitterly? Your father would have scrapped up, fawning on the deer, and offered him the fruits he loved, stroking him the while. And in trust the beast would have eaten, and the poison in the fruit would have slain him. For the people of your father meet neither man nor beast in a fair fight. With a kiss they stab. Horror swept the women, staring and silent. No one had dreamed that the scandal had breached the queen. Never had she spoken or looked her knowledge, but endured all in patience. Now it sprang out like a sword among them, and they feared for Maya whom all loved. Minden did not understand. It was beyond him, but he saw he was scorned. Duamino, her face rigid as a mask, looked piteously at the shaking queen, and each word dropped from her mouth, hard and cold as the falling of diamonds. She refused the insult. If it is thus you speak of our Lord and my love, what wonder he forsakes you? Mother of a craven milk runs in your veins, and his for blood. Take your slinking bread away and weep together. My son and I go forth to meet the king as he comes from hunting, and to welcome him kingly. She caught her boy to her with a magnificent gesture. He flung his little arm about her, and laughing loudly they went off together. The tension relaxed a little when they were out of sight. The women knew that, since Duamino had refused to take the queen's meaning, she would certainly not carry her complaint to the king. They guested her reason for this forbearance, but, be that as it might, it was certain that no other person would dare to tell him and risk the faith that waits the messenger of evil. The eldest lady led away the queen, now almost tottering in the reaction of fear and pain. Oh, that she had controlled her speech. Not for her own sake, for she had lost all, and the beggar can lose no more. But for the boy's sake, the unloved child that stood between the stranger and her hopes. For him she had made a terrible enemy. Weeping the boy followed her. Take comfort, little son, she said, drawing him to her tenderly. The deer can suffer no more. For the tigers he does not fear them. He runs in green woods now where there is none to hunt. He is up and away. The blessed one was once a deer as gentle as yours. But still the child wept, and the queen broke down utterly. Oh, if life be a dream, let us wake, let us wake, she sobbed, for evil things walk in it that cannot live in the light. Or let us dream deeper and forget. Go, little son, yet stay, for who can tell what waits us when the king comes? Let us meet him here. For she believed that Dwaymenow would certainly carry the tale of her speech to the king, and if so, what hope but death together. That night, after the feasting, when the girls were dancing the dance of the fairies and spirits, in gold dresses, winged on the legs and shoulders, and high gold-spired and pinnacled caps, the king missed the little prince, Ananda, and asked why he was absent. No one answered, the women looking upon each other, until Dwaymenow, sitting beside him, glimmering with rough pearls and rubies, spoke smoothly. Lord, worshipped and beloved, the two boys quarreled this day, and Ananda's deer attacked our Minden. He had a madness upon him and thrust with his horns. But Minden, your true son, flew in upon him, and in a great fight he slipped the beast's throat with the knife you gave him. Did he not well? Well, said the king briefly, but is there no hurt, have searched, for he is mine. There was arrogance in this last sentence, and her proud soul rebelled, but smoothly as ever she spoke. I have searched, and there is not the littlest scratch, but Ananda is weeping because the deer is dead, and his mother is angry. What should I do? Nothing. Ananda's worthless and worthless let him be, and for that pale shadow that was once a woman, let her be forgotten. And now, drink, my queen. And Dwaymenow drank, but the drink was bitter to her, for a ghost had risen upon her that day. She had never dreamed that such a scandal had been spoken, and it stunned her very soul with fear, that the queen should know her vileness and the cheat she had put upon the king. As pure maid he had received her, and she knew none better what the doom would be if his trust were broken, and he knew the child, not his. She herself had seen this thing done to a concubine who had a little offended. She was thrust, living, in a sack, and this hung between two earthen jars, pierced with small holes, and thus she was set afloat on the terrible river, and not till the slow filling and sinking of the jars was the agony over, and the cries for mercy stilled. No, the queen's speech was safe with her, but was it safe with the queen? For her silence, Dwaymenow must take measures. Then she put it all aside, and laughed and gested with the king, and did indeed for a time forget, for she loved him for his black bride-beauty, and his courage and royalty, and the child-like trust, and the man's passion that mingled in him for her. Daily and nightly such prayers as she made to strange gods were that she might bear a son, true son, of his. Next day, in the noonday stillness, when all slept, she led her young son by the hand to her secret chamber, and, holding him upon her knees, in that rich and golden place, she lifted his face to hers and stared into his eyes. And so unwavering was her gaze, so mighty the hard, unblinking stare that his own was held against it, and he stared back as the earth stares breathless at the moon. Gradually the terror faded out of his eyes. They glazed as if in a trance. His head fell stupidly against her bosom. His spirit stood on the borderland of being, and waited. Seeing this she took his palm, and, molding it like wax, into the cup of it she dropped clear fluid from a small vessel of pottery, with the fly-flot upon its side and the disks of the God of Shiva. And strange it was to see that lore of India and the palace where the blessed law reigned in peace. Then fixing her eyes with power upon Minden, she bade him a pure child, sea for her in its clearness. Only virgin pure can see, she muttered, staring into his eyes, see, see. The eyes of Minden were closing. He half opened them, and looked dully at his palm. His face was pinched in yellow. A woman, a child on a long couch, dead, I see. See her face. Is her head crowned with the queen's jewels? See. Jewels, I cannot see her face. It is hidden. Why is it hidden? A rope across her face. Oh, let me go. And the child, see. Let me go. Stop. My head, my head, I cannot see. The child is hidden. Her arms hold it. A woman stoops above them. A woman? Who? Is it like me? Speak. See. A woman. It is like you, mother. It is like you. I fear very greatly. A knife, a knife, blood. I cannot see. I cannot speak. I sleep. His face was ghastly white now. His body cold and collapsed. Terrified, she caught him to her breast, and relaxed the power of her will upon him. For that moment, she was only the passionate mother, and quaked to think that she might have heard him. An hour passed, and he slept heavily in her arms. And in agony, she watched to see the color steal back into the olive cheek and white lips. In the second hour, he waked and stretched himself indolently, yawning like a cat. Her tears dropped like rain upon him, as she clasped him violently to her. He rouged himself free, petulant and spoiled. Let me be. I hate kisses and women's tricks. I want to go forth and play. I have had a devil's dream. What did you see in your dream, prince of my heart? She caught frantically at the last chance. A deer, a tiger. I have forgotten. Let me go. He ran off, and she sat alone with her doubts and fears. He had triumph colored them, too. She saw a dead woman, a dead child, and herself ending above them. She hid the vessel in her bosom, and went out among her women. This passed, and never a word that she dreaded from Maya the queen. The women of Duamino, questioning the queen's women, heard that she seemed to have heavy sorrow upon her. Her eyes were like dying lamps, and she faded as they. The king never entered her palace. Drowned in Duamino's wiles and beauty, her slave, her thrall, he forgot all else but his fighting, his hunting, and his long war-boats, and whether the queen lived or died, he cared nothing. Better indeed she should die, and her place be emptied for the beloved, without offense to her powerful kindred. And now he was to sail upon a raid against the Shanzabo, who had denied him tribute of gold and jewels and slaves. This were the boats prepared for war, of brown teak and gilded, until they shone like gold. Seventy men rode them, sword and lance, beside each. Warriors crowded them, flags and banners fluttered about them. The shining water reflected the pomp, like a mirror, and the air rang with song. Duamino stood beside the water with her women, bidding the king farewell, and so he saw her, radiant in the dawn, with her boy beside her, and waved his hand to the last. The ships were gone, and the days languished a little at Pagan. They missed the laughter and royalty of the king, and few men, and those old and weak, were left in the city. The pulse of life beats slower. And Duamino took rule in the golden palace. Then Maya sat like one in a dream, and questioned nothing, and Duamino ruled with wisdom, but none loved her. To all she was the interloper, the witch-woman, the outland upstart. Only the fear of the king guarded her and her boy, but that was strong. The boys played together sometimes, mendent, tyrannizing, and cruel, Ananda fearing and complying, broken in spirit. Maya the queen walked daily in the long and empty golden hall of audience, where none came now that the king was gone, pacing up and down, gazing wearily at the carved screens and all their woodland beauty of gods that did not hear of happy spirits that had no pity. Like a spirit herself she passed between the red pillars, appearing and reappearing with steps that made no sound, consumed with hate of the evil woman that had stolen her joy. Like a slow fire it burned in her soul, and the face of the blessed one was hidden from her, and she had forgotten his peace. In that atmosphere of hate her life dwindled, her sons dwindled also, and there was talk among the women of some potion that Duamino had been seen to drop into his noontide to drink, as she went swiftly by, that might be the gossip of Malus, but he pined, his eyes were large like young birds, his hands like little claws, they thought the departing ear would take him with it, what harm, very certainly the king would shed no tear. It was a sweet and silent afternoon, and she wandered in the great and lonely hall, reckoned with the hate in her soul, and her fear for her boy, but suddenly she heard flying footsteps, of boys, printing in mad haste in the outer hall, and following them, bare feet, soft, butting. She stopped dead and every pulse cried danger, no time to thank or breathe when Minden burst into sight, wild with terror, and following close beside him a man, a madman, a short bright da in his grasp, his jaws grinding foam, his wild eyes starting, one passion to murder. So sometimes from the nats comes pitiless fury, and men run mad and kill, and none knows why, Maya the queen stiffened to meet the danger, joy swept through her soul, her weariness was gone, a fierce smile showed her teeth, a smile of hate, as she stood there and drew her dagger for defense. For defense the man would rend the boy and turn on her, and she would not die, she would live to triumph that the mangro was dead, and her son, the prince again and his father's joy, for his heart would turn to the child most surely. Justice was rushing on its victim, she would see it and live content, the long years of agony wiped out in blood, as was fitting, she would not flee, she would see it and rejoice, and as she stood in gladness these broken thoughts rushing through her like flashes of lightning, Minden saw her by the pillar and screaming in anguish for the first time, fled to her for refuge, she raised her knife to meet the staring eyes, the chalk white face, and drive him back gone the murderer. If the man failed she would not, and even as she did this thing a strange thing befell. Something stronger than hate swept her away like a leaf on the river, something primeval that lives in the lonely pangs of childbirth that hides in the womb and breasts of the mother, it was stronger than she, it was not the hated Minden she saw him no more, suddenly it was the eternal child, lifting, dying, appealing eyes to the woman as he clung to her knees. She did not think this, she felt it, and it dominated her utterly. The woman answered, as if it had been her own flesh and blood she swept the panting body behind her and faced the man with uplifted dagger and knew her victory assured, whether in life or death. Then came the horrible rush, the flaming eyes, and if it was chance that set the dagger against his throat it was cool strength that drove it home, and never wavered until the blood welling from the throat quenched the flame in the wild eyes, and she stood triumphing like a war goddess, with the man at her feet. Then, strong and flushed, Maya the queen gathered the half-dead boy in her arms, and, both drenched with blood, they moved slowly down the hall, and outside met the hurrying crowd, with Dwaymenau, whom the scream had brought to find her son. You have killed him! She has killed him! Scarcely could the Rajput woman speak. She was kneeling beside him, he hideous with blood. She hated him always. She has murdered him! Cease her! Woman, what matter your hates and mine? The queen said slowly. The boy is stark with fear. Carry him in, and send for old Me Shwagon. Woman, be silent. When a queen commands, men and women obey, and a queen commanded then. A huddled group lifted the child and carried him away. Dwaymenau with him, still uttering wild threats, and the queen was left alone. She could not realize what she had done, and left undone. She could not understand it. She had hated, sickened with loathing, as it seemed for ages. And now, in a moment, it had blown away like the whirlwind that is gone. Hate was washed out of her soul, and had left to cool, and why it is the lotus of the Blessed One? What power had Dwaymenau to hurt her, when that other power walked beside her? She seemed to float above her, in high air, and looked down upon her with compassion, strength, virtue float in her veins. Weakness, fear were fantasies. She could not understand, but she knew here was perfect enlightenment. About her echoed the words of the Blessed One. Never in this world doth hatred cease by hatred, but only by love. This is an old rule. Whereas I was blind, now I see, said Maya, the queen slowly, to her own heart. She had grasped the hems of the mighty. Words cannot speak the still passion of strength and joy that possessed her. Her step was light, but she walked her soul sang within her, for thus it was with those that have received the law. About them is the peace. In the dawn she was told that the queen, Dwaymenau, would speak with her, and without a tremor, she who had shaken like a leaf at the name, commanded that she should enter. It was Dwaymenau that trembled, as she came into the unknown place. With cloudy brows and eyes that would reveal no secret, she stood before the high seat where the queen sat, pale and majestic. Is it well with the boy? The queen asked earnestly. Well, said Dwaymenau, fingering the silver bosses of her girdle. Then, is there more to say? The tone was that of a great lady, who courteously ends an audience. There is more. The men brought in the body, and in its throat your dagger was sticking. And my son has told me that your body was a shield to him. You offered your life for his. I did not think to thank you, but I thank you. She ended abruptly, and still her eyes had never met the queens. I accept her thanks, yet a mother could do no less. The tone was one of dismissal, but still Dwaymenau lingered. The dagger, she said, and drew it from her bosom. On the clear-pointed blade the blood had curdled and dried. I never thought to ask a gift of you, but this dagger is a memorial of my son's danger. May I keep it? As you will, here is the sheet. From her girdle she drew it, rough silver encrusted with rubies from the mountains. The hand rejected it. Jewels I cannot take, but bear steel is a fitting gift between us two. As you will, the queen spoke compassionately, and Dwaymenau still, with veiled eyes, was gone without farewell. The empty sheath lay on a seat, a symbol of the sharp-edged hate that had passed out of her life. She touched the sheath to her lips, and, smiling, laid it away. Then the days went by, and Dwaymenau came no more before her, and her days were fulfilled with peace. And now again the queen ruled in the palace, wisely and like a queen, and this Dwaymenau did not dispute, but what her thoughts were no man could tell. Then came the end. One night the city awakened to a wild alarm. A terrible fleet of war-boats came sweeping along the river, thick as locusts, the war-fleet of the Lord of Prome. Battle-shouts broke the peace of the night to horror, axes battered to the outer doors, the roofs of the outer buildings were all aflame. It was no wonderful incident, but a common one enough of those turbulent days, reprisal by a powerful ruler, with raids and hates, to avenge on the Lord at the Golden Palace. It was indeed a right to be gained, said, only by the strong arm, and the strong arm was absent. As for the men of Pagan, if the guard failed, and the women's courage sank, they would return to the blackened walls, empty chambers and desolation. Had Pagan the guard was small indeed, for the king's greed of plunder had taken almost every able man with him. Still those who were left did what they could, and the women, alert and brave, with but few exceptions, gathered the children and handed such weapons as they could muster to the men, and themselves, taking knaves and daggers, helped to defend the inner rooms. In the farthest, the queen, having given her commands and encouraged all with brave words, like a wise, prudent princess, sat with her son beside her. Her duty was now to him. Loved or unloved, he was still the heir, the root of the house tree. If all failed, she must make ransom and terms for him, and if they died, it must be together. He with sparkling eyes, gay in the danger, stood by her, thus Duamino found them. She entered quietly and without any display of emotion, and stood before the high seat. Great Queen! She used that title for the first time. The leader is Meng Kinyo of Prome. There is no mercy. The end is near. Our men, both asked, the women are fleeing. I have come to say this thing. Save the prince. And how, asked the queen, still seated. I have no power. I have sent to Meng Tin, out of the Golden Monastery, and he has said this thing. In the kayung across the river, he can hide one child among the novices, cut his hair swiftly, and put upon him this yellow robe. The time is measured in minutes. Then the queen perceived, standing by the pillar, a monk of a stern dark presence, the creature of Duamino. For an instant she pondered. Was the woman selling the child to death? Duamino spoke no word. Her face was a mask, a minute that seemed an hour drifted by, and the yelling and shrieks for mercy drew near. There will be pursuits of the queen. They will slay him on the river. Better hear with me. There will be no pursuit. Duamino fixed her strange eyes on the queen for the first time. What moved in those eyes? The queen could not tell. But despairing, she rose and went to the silent monk, leading the prince by the hand. Swiftly he stripped the child of the silk passaw of royalty. Swiftly he cut the long black tresses, knotted on the little head, and upon the slender golden body he set the yellow robe, worn by the Lord himself, on earth. And in the small hand he placed the begging-bowl of the Lord. And now, remote and holy, in the dress that is all of his most sacred, the prince, standing by the monk, turned to his mother and looked with grave eyes upon her, as the child Buddha looked upon his mother, also a queen. Duamino stood by silent, and lent no help as the queen folded the prince in her arms, and laid his hand in the hand of the monk, and saw them pass away among the pillars. She standing still and white. She turned to her rival. If you have meant truly, I thank you. I have meant truly. She turned to go, but the queen caught her by the hand. Why have you done this, she asked, looking into the strange eyes of the strange woman. Something like tears gathered in them for a moment, but she brushed them away as she said hurriedly. I was grateful. You saved my son. Is it not enough? No, not enough, cried the queen. There is more. Tell me, for death is upon us. His footsteps are near, said the Indian. And I will speak. I love my lord. In death I will not cheat him. What you have known is true. My child is no child of his. I will not go down to death with a lie upon my lips. Come and see. Duamino was no more. Sundari, the Indian woman, awful and calm, led the queen down the long hall and into her own chamber, where Minden the child slept a drug at sleep. The queen felt that she had never known her. She herself seemed diminished in stature as she followed the stately figure with its still dark face. Into this room the enemy were breaking, shouldering their way at the door. A rabble of terrible faces. Their fury was partly checked when only a sleeping child and two women confronted them, but their leader, a grim and evil-looking man, strode from the huddle. Where is the son of the king, he shouted? Speak, women! Whose is this boy? Sundari laid her hand upon her son's shoulder, not a muscle of her face flickered. This is his son. His true son, the son of Maya the queen? His true son, the son of Maya the queen. Not the younger, the mongrel? The younger, the mongrel, died last week of a fever. Every moment of delay was precious. Her eyes saw only a monk and a boy fleeing across the wide river. Which is Maya the queen? This, said Sundari, she cannot speak. It is her son, the prince. Maya had veiled her face with her hands. Her brain swam, but she understood the noble eye. This woman could love. Her lord would not be left childless. Thought to be like pulses in her, raced along her veins. She held her breath and was dumb. His doubt was assuaged, and the lust of vengeance was on him. A madness seized the man. But even his own wild men shrank back a moment, for to slay a sleeping child in cold blood is no man's work. He swore it is the prince. But why? Why do you not lie to save him if you are the king's woman? Because his mother has trampled me to the earth. I am the Indian woman, the mother of the younger who is dead and safe. She jeered at me. She mocked me. It is time I should see her suffer. Suffer now, as I have suffered, Maya the queen. This was reasonable. This was like the women he had known. His doubt was gone. He laughed aloud. Then feed-fold a vengeance, he cried, and drove his knife through the child's heart. For a moment Sundari wavered where she stood. But she held herself and was rigid as the dead. Tidoo! Well done, she said with an awful smile. The tree is broken, the roots cut. And now for us women. Our fate, a master? Wait here, he answered. Let not a hair of their heads be touched. Both are fair. The two for me, for the rest, draw lots when all is done. The uproar surged away. The two stood by the dead boy. So swift had been his death, that he lay as though he still slept. The black lashes pressed upon his cheek. With the heredity of their different races upon them, neither wept, but silently the queen opened her arms. Wide as a woman that entreats, she opened them for the Indian queen. And speechlessly the two clunked together. For a while neither spoke. My sister said Maya the Queen, and again, O great of heart! She laid her cheek against Sundari's, and a wave of solemn joy seemed to break in her soul, and flood it with life and light. Had I known sooner, she said. For now the night draws on. What is time? answered the Rajput woman. We stand before the lords of life and death. The life you gave was yours, and I am unworthy to kiss the feet of the queen. Our lord will return, and his son is saved. The house can be rebuilt. My son and I were waves washed up from the sea. Another wave washes us back to nothingness. Tell him my story, and he will loathe me. My lips are shut, said the queen. Should I betray my sister's honor? When he speaks of the noble women of old, your name will be among them. What matters which of us he loves and remembers? Your soul and mine have seen the same thing, and we are one. But I, what have I to do with life? The ship and the bed of the conqueror awaits us. Should we await them, my sister? The bright tears glittered in the eyes of Sandari at the tender name and the love in the face of the queen. At last she accepted it. My sister, no, she said, and drew from her bosom the dagger of Maya, with the man's blood rusted upon it. Here is the way. I have kept this dagger in token of my debt. Nightly have I kissed it, swearing that when the time came I would repay my debt to the great queen. Shall I go first or follow my sister? Her voice lingered on the word. It was precious to her. It was like clear water, laying away the stain of the shameful years. Your arm is strong, answered the queen. I go first. Because the king's son is safe, I bless you. For you love of the king, I love you. The tears standing on the verge of life I testify that the words of the blessed one are the truth, that love is all, that hatred is nothing. She bared the breast that this woman had made desolate, that with the love of this woman was desolate no longer, and stooping laid her hand on the brow of Minden. Once more they embraced, and then, strong and true, and with the rage put passion behind the blow, the stroke fell, and Sundari had given her sister the crowning mercy of deliverance. She laid the body beside her own son, composing the stately limbs, the quiet eyelids, the black lengths of hair into majesty. So she thought, in the great temple of the Rajput race, the mother goddess shed silence and awe upon her worshipers. She too lay like mother and son. One slight hand of the queen she laid across the little body as if to guard it. Her work done she turned to the entrance and watched the dawn coming glorious over the river. The men shouted and quarreled in the distance, but she heeded them no more than the chattering of apes. Her heart was away over the distance to the king, but with no passion now. So might a mother have thought of her son. He was sleeping, forgetful of even her and his dreams. What matter? She was glad at heart. The queen was dearer to her than the king. So strange is life, so healing is death. She remembered, without surprise, that she had asked no forgiveness of the queen for all the cruel wands, for the deadly intent had made no confession. What matter? What is forgiveness when love is all? She turned from the dawn light to the light in the face of the queen. It was well. Led by such a hand she could present herself without fear before the lords of life and death. She and the child. She smiled. Life is good, but death, which is more life, is better. None of the king was safe, but her own son was safer. When the conqueror re-entered the chamber, he found the dead queen guarding the dead child, and across her feet, as not worthy to lie beside her, was the body of the Indian woman, most beautiful in death. End of Section 9