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CHAPTER LI

When Kamala reached the bank of the Ganges the short-lived December sun had already sunk to the verge of the pallid sky. Facing the oncoming dusk Kamala saluted the departing deity. She sprinkled drops of the sacred water on her head, then stepping into the stream and raising a handful of water in her joined palms, she bestowed a libation on the holy river and threw flowers into the current.

She bowed herself in adoration of all the heavenly powers. As she raised her head from the ground she remembered one more being to whom she owed worship. She had never aspired to look upon his face. On that one night which she had spent by his side her eyes had never rested even on his feet. In the bridal chamber he had spoken a word or two to her girl-companions but his accents had scarcely pene- trated the barriers of the veil and of her own reserve. Now she stood at the river's brink she strove intensely but unsuccessfully to recall the sound of his voice.

The night had been far spent before the wedding ceremonies were over. So utterly wearied had she been that sleep descended suddenly on her, when and where she could not tell. She awoke to find a young married neighbour shaking her out of her drowsiness with shrieks of laughter. She was alone on the couch. In this last moment of her existence her mind could grasp nothing tangible to remind her of the lord of that existence. His personality was a closed book to her. Face, voice, visible token, there was nothing that she could recall. Even the thread of red silk

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