the
centuries-old Aruna--still at the mercy of dastur--had secretly bought
her little chiragh; secretly resolved to try her fate on the night of
nights. If the answer were unfavourable--and courage failed her--there
was always one way of escape. The water that put out her lamp would as
carelessly put out the flame of her life--in a little moment--without
pain....

A small shiver convulsed her--kneeling there in her balcony; her bare
arms resting on the balustrade. The new Aruna shrank from thought of
death. She craved the fulness of life and love--kisses and rapture and
the clinging arms of little children....

For, as she knelt in the moonlight, nominally she was invoking Mai
Lakshmi; actually she was dreaming of Roy; chiding herself for the
foolishness that had kept her from appearing at dinner; hoping he might
wonder, and perhaps think of her a little--wishing her there. And all
the while, perhaps he was simply not noticing--not caring one little
bit----!

Stung by the thought, she clenched her hands and lifted her bowed head.
Then she started--and caught her breath----

Could it be he, down there among the shadows--wandering, dreaming,
thinking of her, or making poems? She knew most of his slim volume by
heart.

More likely, he was framing bold plans to find Dyan--now the answer to
her letter had come. It was a strange unsatisfying answer; full of
affection, but too full of windy phrases that she was shrewd enough to
recognise as mere echoes from those others, who had ensnared him in a
web of words.

"Fear not for me, sister of my heart," he wrote. "Rejoice because I am
dedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released from
political bondage and shine again in her ancient glory--no longer
exploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones they
can lock up Veda--eternal truth! The gods have spoken. It is time. Kali
rises in the East, with her necklet of skulls--Giants of evil she has
slain. It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot: 'Do not
wall up your vision, like frogs in a well.... Rise above the Penal Code
to the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions of
heroic men.'

"You ask if I still love Roy? Why not? He is of our own blood and a very
fine fellow. But I don't write now because he would not understand my
fervour of soul. So don't you take all his opinions for gospel; like my
grandfather's, they are well meant, but obsolete. If only you had
co