In a Buddhist monastery among the mountains, Siddha lay stretched on his sick bed, while Iravati watched by his side. Her joy had been great at finding him still alive when, after her long and dangerous journey, she at length arrived; but this joy had been tempered by the doctor’s assurance that his state was a most critical one. When she was admitted to his room, she found him still senseless; and who could say whether he would ever regain consciousness, or recognise her before his death?

After a long time of anxious watching, a slight improvement gave rise to hope, and Iravati was warned that if she would continue to tend the wounded man, she must allow herself more rest. Kulluka and the monks persuaded her to take short walks; and it was not without pleasure that she at times visited the little temple belonging to the monastery when the bell called the believers to prayer. With earnest attention she listened to the words of the chief priest when he spoke of the gradations of human life, and how sorrow fell on all, and how rare were the visits of happiness, and how the greatest bliss for man was to be freed from all human ties and to attain NirvÁna.1 In these teachings Kulluka found much with which he could not agree, and, in other circumstances, would perhaps have remarked to the priest that to live for the good of others was a nobler aim of life than to remain sunk in idle contemplation. But opposition was perhaps superfluous. The practice of these Buddhists was better than their teaching; for though they took no part in the turbulent life and sorrows of the world, still they did not spend their time in idleness. Unwearily they wandered amongst the mountains, visiting all the poor inhabitants, scattering their good deeds and consolation wherever misery was to be found, without respect of nationality, religion, or caste.

One evening Iravati was seated by Siddha’s couch, while the doctor watched him from the other side, when he slowly opened his eyes, and, throwing a hasty glance around him, seemed to recognise Iravati. He softly murmured her name, and again closed his eyes. The doctor made a sign to Iravati to withdraw, which she unwillingly obeyed, and hastened, with a heart full of joy, to seek Kulluka, and to impart to him the glad news. The next day the improvement still continued, and the patient could even speak. But Siddha made but little use of this power even when Iravati was with him; and though he knew her and his friend, he did not seem to remember any of the events that had happened,—a mist seemed to hang over his mind. Almost without consciousness he would sit, gazing before him, and only Iravati’s voice could arouse him from this stupefaction. This still continued, even after his bodily strength returned and he was again able to take exercise.

Once it happened, as he strolled with Iravati in the neighbourhood of the monastery, that some word of hers, or some object on which his eye fell—she herself could not tell which—seemed to awaken memory in him. Suddenly he stood still, gazing with wonder around him, and passed his hand over his face. Then shaking his head, he walked on, and then again stood still, gazing inquiringly at the high mountain tops, then at the blue sky, and at the valleys and woods that lay around. A deadly pallor crept over his face, and with a wild look he turned to Iravati. Memory had returned in its full strength, but how? and, perchance, was not forgetfulness both better and happier?

“Go, go!” he cried, at last. “What are you doing here, unhappy one, with me? How can you bear that I should approach you—I, the faithless traitor, laden with the heaviest curse that was ever laid on man?”

Iravati listened in breathless terror. She did not understand all, though more than enough. She attempted to speak, but her voice failed her, and overcome with sorrow, she sank at his feet.

“The curse!” repeated Siddha, wildly; “the curse of Faizi—’Live with the memory of what you have done; and though you may attain all your heart desires, yet shall you always cast down your eyes before an honourable man.’ And should I dare to raise them to you, pure and innocent, whom I betrayed as basely as I did my noble friend! Go, I say, far from here. A figure stands between you and me. It is that of Faizi. He stands there, threatening as when he spoke my doom.”

As Iravati raised her head, she saw him cover his face with his hands, as though he dared not look at her. “Come,” she said, “let us go in; you have done too much, and so false visions torment you. Come, then.”

“Visions,” answered Siddha, bitterly; “would that they were! But, no. I am now again myself; my strength has returned, and with it the recollection, the terrible recollection, more real than ever. I never yet felt the full meaning of Faizi’s words; but now that I again see you, I comprehend them. Before the Emperor, and even before the meanest of my soldiers, have I cast down my eyes with shame; but never as now. Vainly I sought an honourable death. Iravati,” he continued, “you do not know with whom you speak; you do not know my last crimes.”

“I do know,” she answered, “though perhaps not exactly what happened between Faizi and yourself; but I have gathered sufficient from the words you have let fall.”

“And yet you still speak to me,” cried Siddha. “You do not turn from me; you even come to tend my last days.”

“Did I not give you my word, Siddha? and was I not bound to keep it until you yourself gave it to me back? and that you have never done. Did you not send me by Kulluka the token that told your last thought was mine? and I felt that I had taken duties on me, although no marriage ties bound us.”

“Then I now release you from your promise,” said Siddha. “It is true that no sooner did I awaken from that miserable blindness than my love for you returned with a strength that until then I did not know. You, you can be true to me, and fulfil all your duties. But you can love me no more.”

“I love you now, as I always did,” replied Iravati.

“You seek to convince yourself that you do, from an exaggerated feeling of honour; but it is not possible that you should do so, and the day would come when you would regret that you had not known yourself better. There can be no love where there is no respect. The woman must look up to the man, and unhappy is the union where he is the weaker. Go, and forget me; I am not even worthy of your remembrance.”

“Then you thrust me away?”

“I have no right to thrust you away, nor to release you from your word. I only do so in order to give you rest, and to spare you any self-reproach that you might feel at leaving me of your own free will.”

“Listen to my prayer, Siddha,” said she, entreatingly, and laying her hand on his arm. “I will not dispute what you say, I will not wish or require anything as my right. I only implore you to listen to the wish that is dearest to my heart. I do not ask any promise for the future. I give you the fullest liberty; but let me remain with you for the present, even if it is for a short time. It is impossible for me to part with you now.”

“No, and never!” answered Siddha, sternly. “No hesitation, no weakness; once for all, leave me and forget me.” And pushing Iravati, who went on before him, he prepared to hurry away, so that he might never again see her whom until this moment he had never loved so tenderly.

“Let it be so,” said Iravati, rising up, with an injured feeling of self-respect, and speaking with a firm voice; “let it be so, you are perhaps right. You make yourself unworthy of my love. Once, in spite of your promises, you have been unfaithful to me, but that I had forgotten and forgiven; for I knew you had been led away by temptation unknown to me. But now you drive me from you, not because I have committed any fault, but because you are too proud to confess to your wife that you have once been weak and unable to withstand temptation. Leave me, then. Without you my life is without value; but a forced love no woman can seek, not even from the man she loves. And now, to the memory of the crime you have been guilty of against a friend, add the memory of a woman whom you loved, yet sacrificed to your selfish pride.”

Siddha hesitated. Should he go, or stay? The latter he would gladly do, but how could he reconcile it with honour? “Who shall decide?” he said, striking his forehead with his hand. “There is truth in what you say, though it is in conflict with what I consider right. Yet,” continued he, “another, who is wiser than either of us, shall decide between us.”

“You mean Kulluka?”

“No, not him. Highly as I prize his opinion, I know beforehand that he would only try to secure our happiness, and, to do so, would decide that you are right. He would not be impartial in his judgment. There is another; but do not ask me further. He alone can I trust to decide between us; and he will advise me. Listen, then, Iravati; let me depart hence as speedily as possible. Perhaps I shall return soon, perhaps never. Should I return, then my life shall henceforth be devoted to you. If not, then understand that you will never see me more, and that you are freed from all ties that bind you to me. Do not raise objections, but have patience with me, such as, till now, you have always shown.”

Before Iravati could reply to this new and unexpected proposal, Siddha had disappeared to seek his servant, and to order his horse to be saddled, so as to set out on their journey, his destination being unknown to her.

Iravati hastened to Kulluka, and told him all that had passed, and Siddha’s extraordinary determination; but the guru, seeing that it was better to let Siddha take his own way and not to oppose him, tried to console Iravati with the hope that she would soon see him again. In the meantime Siddha had taken leave of the Buddhist priest, giving him a rich present for the benefit of the monastery, and then, followed by Vatsa, had ridden away.

Again the last rays of the setting sun fell on the slopes of the HimÁlayas, and again Siddha, accompanied by Vatsa, followed the path that led to the valley where the habitation of Gurupada was situated. He was received by the old servant, who quickly recognised him, and without delay led him to his master.

The hermit welcomed his young friend with pleasure, but saw with concern the change that had taken place in his appearance. His face, once so full of joy and life, was now pale, and had assumed a sad and dark expression; and his whole bearing had lost its former elasticity. In but a short time the youth had become a man, and not one full of life and strength, but one bowed down under the weight of sorrow, which Gurupada’s sharp sight told him was the heaviest that falls to the lot of man, that of self-reproach.

“Most revered,” said Siddha, after the first greetings; “or let me rather say, most gracious prince——”

“No,” interrupted the hermit; “continue to call me Gurupada, for I am nothing more.”

“I obey,” said Siddha, “and I see with joy that you have not forgotten me. Perhaps you still remember the last words you said to me, when, after a short visit to your hospitable dwelling, we took our leave.”

“I made you promise,” replied Gurupada, “to seek me again if it should ever chance in your life that you should need the counsel of a true friend; and I understand that this is the reason which now brings you here. If I may judge from your looks, the cause of your coming is a very bitter one.”

“You are right,” said Siddha; “and when you have heard all, you will wonder that my appearance does not more clearly proclaim my feelings.”

“Come now,” said Gurupada, “to the other side of the house; there we will seat ourselves, and talk quietly of all that has happened.”

Siddha gladly accepted the invitation, and after having, at the earnest request of the hermit, partaken of some refreshment, he began to recount all that had happened until the moment of his parting with Iravati in the cloister.

Gurupada listened with the deepest attention and interest; and when the tale was finished he remained for some moments silent, sunk in thought; but at last, looking at Siddha, he said: “In truth you have laden yourself with a heavy burthen, but not so heavy as that a man cannot bear it. That you allowed yourself to be led away by Gulbadan is not to be defended, although it may be excusable; but that you did not part from her, after discovering who she was, was an inexcusable offence against your friendship with Faizi. Your original faithlessness towards the Emperor was partly the result of an error; but to remain in his service and to conspire against him was a crime. I do not judge your conduct more leniently than you do yourself; on the contrary, I judge it still more harshly. You believe that the tale of your faults was closed when you confessed your crimes to the Emperor. But you deceive yourself, you began to commit another, which may be just as unfortunate as those which preceded it, although you were led into it by an error. The greater part of mankind imagine with you that repentance is a virtue, and that by penance and self-punishment alone can sin be washed away. But few errors are so ruinous in their result as this, when penance consists in the penitent’s withdrawal from the circle in which he can labour usefully, and when also he punishes others as well as himself. And this is what you would do. First, you sought death on the field of battle, which was the simplest place, as you would not lay violent hands on your own life. But what good would your death have produced, or how could it undo the ill you have done? Unable to find an honourable death, you declare your intention of living a solitary life in the jungle, devoted to prayer and penance; but for what? How could this serve yourself or others? And then Iravati, your bride! you desert her, not because she is faithless to you, but because you have cause to feel shame in her presence. Thus you punish her more than yourself. Do you call that duty and virtue? No, my friend, such a course would end in being worse than an error. You look at me with astonishment; but the course you propose would be one of pride and defiance, because you know that you have lowered yourself. Iravati was right; you were too proud to bind yourself to a woman who knew all your weaknesses, and who had nothing to reproach herself with; and it is indeed pride that prompts you to fly the world. You fear to meet some one acquainted with your former evil deeds. You dare not look a man in the face, for fear of what he may know of you. Is that, I ask, virtue and courage? is it not, rather, a cowardly weakness?”

“But Faizi’s last words,” said Siddha.

“I foresaw that objection,” continued Gurupada; “and I do not deny that it has a certain weight. But let us beware of exaggeration. That Faizi should have acted and spoken as he did is easily to be understood in his place. You probably would have done the same; and he, were he in my place, and had to decide impartially, would doubtless say as I do. A man need not spend his life bowed down in humiliation because in an evil hour he has been guilty of a shameful deed, when his after life has been spent so as to gain the respect of his fellow-men. Now listen to the counsel you ask of me, which I willingly give. You have arrived at the full consciousness of the wickedness of your conduct, and you have accused yourself before the Emperor, before Iravati, and before me. That was well done; but the knowledge and clear insight of your evil-doing must not be the last step, but the first, in the right path. It should restrain you from all errors, not only those of the same class that have already led you astray, but also from others. It should teach you to keep better watch over yourself, your impressions, your passions. You should have greater dread of deeds which you could not confess to others without shame; and in the end you should attain to a state of mind which will make it impossible for you to act against duty or honour. But this cannot be if you seek to avoid temptation by flying from it. Resist temptation, and begin in the first place by conquering your own pride. Therefore take Iravati for your wife, and render yourself worthy of her. Go to the Emperor, and pray him to entrust you with some work by which you may serve your country; I doubt not but that he will willingly grant your request. I understand that you desire to avoid Faizi, and that is well; you owe it to him to spare him any meeting, and Hindustan is large enough to keep two men apart. In Kashmir, or in other places, you may render as good service as in Agra itself. Think over this, and, after reflection, let me know what your decision is.—No, no, do not answer me at once,” said Gurupada, seeing Siddha ready with his reply; “take the repose of which I see you have need, and to-morrow, when you have thoroughly weighed all I have said, tell me if you still see difficulties in following the advice I have given.” And with a friendly greeting the hermit left Siddha to his own thoughts.

The next day Siddha was ready to take farewell of Gurupada, perhaps for the last time. For a long while the two men stood in earnest conversation, and as at last the traveller turned to mount his horse, he warmly pressed his host’s hand, saying, with a trembling voice, but with a countenance cleared from all trouble, “I thank you, Gurupada, for the manly advice you have given me; I owe you a new life, and I hope to bear myself in it very differently from what I have done in the past, which I shall never forget. You have taught me what true repentance is; may I never give you reason to think that your good counsel has been given to one who is unworthy of it.”