gods and goddesses rushed on the stage, and each
of them made a long speech to the devotee-god, which Sir Modava had not
time to render into English, even with the aid of Sahib Govind.

The actors were fantastically dressed. One had an elephant's head, and all
of them wore high gilt mitres. Krishna enters, and the other divinities
make their exit. He is a nice-looking young man, painted blue, and dressed
like a king. His wife enters, and throws herself at his feet. Then she
reproaches him for forsaking her, in a soft and musical voice, her eyes
raining tears all the time. She embraces his knees.

Then appears the rival in her affections with Krishna, Rukmini, an
imperious woman, and tells by what artifices she has conquered the weak
husband. Then follows a spirited dialogue between the two women. The rival
boasts of her descent from Vishnu, and of her beauty and animation, and
reproaches Krishna with his unworthy love. Sir Modava wrote this down in
his memorandum book, and handed it to the Americans.

Satyavama, the wife, insists that her only crime was her love for her
divine husband. She narrates her early history, when she was a peasant girl
on the banks of the Jumna, with her companions, and drew upon herself the
attention of the god. Her life had been simple, and she had always been a
faithful wife. Yet Rukmini triumphs over her. Her pride is aroused; she
rushes off, and returns with her little son.

"Kill us both, since we cannot live without your love!" the interpreters
rendered her piteous cry. The rival ridicules her, and, urged on by her,
Krishna hands her a cup of poison, which she drinks, and sinks to the
ground.

"It is not the poison that rends me; it is that my heart is broken by the
ingratitude of one I have so dearly loved." She forgives him, and dies.

But not thus does the Indian love-story end; for the genie enters, and in
thundering tones calls Krishna to an account for his deeds. The festive god
is tortured with remorse, but has no excuse to offer. He drives Rukmini
from him, and implores the yellow-painted god for forgiveness; and, as he
is the preserver, it is granted. Satyavama is brought back to life. She
presents her son to her husband, who holds out his arms to embrace him; and
the curtain drops in a blaze of Bengal lights, and the "Wah! Wahs!" of the
Hindu audience.

The interpreters finished their explanations, and the company retired with
the salaams of the crowd. It was very late w