el mated to the pollen of the glistening
areka-flower._

_LET ALL THE WISE CHILDREN LISTEN TO MY JATAKA!_

"See!" said Shivadevi, the old nurse, to Vasantasena, who shimmered
among the green, silken cushions of her couch like a tiger-beetle in a
nest of fresh leaves. "Vikramavati, the king, has bowed low before you.
He has removed from your hands and ankles the pearl and gold fetters. He
has taken off your robe of mourning and has thrown about your shoulders
a sari woven of moonbeams and running water. He has seated you beside
him on the peacock throne, as a free woman--not a slave."

"Yes," replied Vasantasena. "He has placed his head and his heart on the
sill of the door of love. He brought me his soul as an offering. And
I"--she yawned--"I love him not."

"He has heaped your lap with many treasures," went on the old woman.
"Jasper from the Punjab has he brought to you, rubies from Burma,
turquoises from Thibet, star-sapphires and alexandrites from Ceylon,
flawless emeralds from Afghanistan, white crystal from Malwa, onyx from
Persia, amethyst from Tartary, green jade and white jade from Amoy,
garnets from Bundelkhand, red corals from Socotra, chalcedon from Syria,
malachite from Kafiristan, pearls from Ramesvaram, lapis lazuli from
Jaffra, yellow diamonds from Poonah, black agate from Dynbhulpoor!"

Vasantasena shrugged her slim shoulders disdainfully.

"Yes," she said. "He put the nightingale in a cage of gold and
exclaimed: 'Behold, this is thy native land!' Then he opened the
door--and the nightingale flew away to the green land, the free land,
never regretting the golden cage."

"He grovels before you in the dust of humility. He says that his life is
a blackened crucible of sin and vanity and regret, but that his love
for you is the golden bead at the bottom of the crucible. He has given
you freedom. He has given you friendship. He has given you tenderness
and affection and respect."

"Yes," smiled Vasantasena. "He has given me his everything, his all.
Without cavil, without stint. Freedom he has given me, keeping the
bitter water of humility as his own portion. But all his generosity, his
fairness, his humility, his decency--all his love has not opened the
inner door to the shrine of my heart. In the night he comes, with the
flaming torches of his passion; but my heart is as cold as clay, as cold
as freezing water when the snow wind booms down from the Himalayas. The
madness of the storm and the