And yet again they saw themselves, in strange regions, and amid natural scenery of another type.
It was no longer the valley of the Gunga and Jumna, with its magnificent palace-filled cities where warriors in shining armour, proud Brahmans, rich citizens, and diligent Çudras lent animation to the streets. This theatre which, with its luxuriant tropical magnificence, had so often girt round their common life, as though there were no other world, now disappeared entirely, to make room for a drearier and harsher land.
Here the sun of summer burns, it is true, just as hot as by the Gunga, dries up the watercourses, and parches the grass. But in winter the frost robs the woods of their foliage and rime covers the fields. No towns rear their towers in this region; only widely scattered villages, with large folds, lie in the midst of its rich pastures, and the protecting elevation near by is turned into a small fortress by means of ramparts and rude walls. A warlike, pastoral people have here their home. The woods are full of wolves, and miles away the trembling wayfarer hears the roar of the lion—“of the beast that roameth, frightful, savage; whose lair is in the mountains”—as he describes him; for he is a song-maker.
After long wanderings, he approaches a village, an unknown but welcome guest; for that he is everywhere. Over his shoulder hangs his sole visible possession—a small lute; but in his head he carries the whole precious heritage of his fathers: ancient mystic hymns to Agni and Indra, to Varuna and Mitra, yea, even to unknown gods; songs of war and wassail for men; love-songs for the maidens; fortune-bringing magic sayings for the kine, the givers of milk. And he has power and knowledge with which to increase this store from his own resources. Where, indeed, would such a guest not be welcome?
It is the hour when the cattle are being driven home. At the head of a herd, there walks, with supreme grace in every movement of her young body, a maiden of lofty stature; by her side goes her pet cow, whose bell the others follow, and from time to time the favourite licks her mistress’s hand. The young wanderer gives the maiden evening greeting; she replies with kindly words. Smiling, they look at one another—and the look is the same that in the pleasure park at Kosambi flew back and forth between the ballplayer on the stage and the stranger spectator.
But the Land of the Five Streams, after it has repeatedly given them shelter and a home, disappears in its turn as did the valley of the Gunga. Other regions come into view, other peoples and customs surround them—everything poorer, ruder, wilder.
The steppe over which the procession passes—horsemen, wagons, and pedestrians in endless lines—is white with snow. The air is full of whirling flakes. Black mountains look darkly down. From under the tentlike roof of a heavy ox-wagon, a maiden leans forward with such haste of movement that the sheepskin slips aside, and her wealth of golden hair flows down over cheeks, throat, and breast. Anxiety burns in her eyes as she gazes out in the direction in which all eyes are turned, all fingers point—to where, like a dark cloud whirled up by the wind, a horde of mounted horsemen comes sweeping towards them. But she smiles confidently, as her glance meets that of the youth who rides on a black ox beside the wagon; and it is the same look as erstwhile, even if out of blue eyes. The glance sets the heart of the youth on fire—he swings his battle-axe, and with loud cry joins the other warriors who rush to meet the foe—sets it on fire, and still warms it when it is pierced by the cold iron of a Scythian dart.
But they saw greater changes yet; led by the fragrant odour of the Coral Tree, they undertook even longer journeys.
They found themselves as stag and hind in the vast forest. Their love was wordless now, but not sightless. And again it was the same look; deep in the darkest depths of their great presageful eyes there lightened, even if through dim blue mists, the same spark that had later found its way so radiantly from human eye to human eye.
They grazed together; waded side by side in the clear, cool forest brook; body by body rested in the tall soft grass. They had their joys in common; together trembled for fear, when a branch suddenly became alive and the jaws of the python opened wide, or when, in the stillness of the night, a scarcely audible, creeping movement was caught by their quick cars, while their distended nostrils winded the pungent odour of a beast of prey, and they fled thence, with mighty bounds, just as a rustling and cracking made itself heard in the neighbouring thicket, and the angry roar of a tiger that had fallen short of its prey rolled through the wood, now suddenly waking to life all around.
For many years they had thus together shared all the delights and dangers of the forest, when in a lovely bit of shade one day they proceeded to gnaw the young and juicy saplings. Alas! the hind entangled herself in the snare of a hunter. In vain did her mate work with tine and hoof to burst the bonds that fettered his love, though he laboured ceaselessly till the enemy—man—approached. Then he faced the foe with lowered antlers, and the deadly
