After I had thus spoken, Angulimala rose, and said—
“Even as thou dost require from me, Sister Vasitthi,” bowed low, and strode out at the door.
Thence he went straight to his cell to get his alms-bowl, and in that same hour left the Sinsapa wood. People generally believed that he had gone on a pilgrimage, following the Master. I alone knew the goal of his journey.
This step once taken, I felt myself grow somewhat calmer, although haunted by a doubt as to whether I should not have given him some greeting or messages to my beloved. But it seemed to me unfitting and profane to use a monk in such a way, as a go-between in love-matters, while, on the other hand, he could perfectly well go to a distant city and give an account of what he had seen there. It would also be something quite other—I said to myself, with secret hope—if he, without being commissioned to do so, and acting on his own judgment, should decide to speak to my loved one of me.
“I will myself go to Ujjeni and bring him here safe and sound”—these words resounded ever in my inmost heart. Would the monk be likely, then, to redeem the promise of the robber? Why not, if he himself should be convinced that it was necessary for both of us to see and to speak to one another?
And with that came a new thought from whch streamed an unexpected ray of hope that at first dazzled and bewildered me. If my beloved should return, what was then to hinder my resigning from the Order and becoming his wife?
When this question arose in my mind, burning blushes covered my face, which I involuntarily hid in my hands, from fear that someone might just at that moment be observing me. To what hateful misinterpretation would such a course of action not be exposed? Would it not look as though I had regarded the Order of the Buddha simply as a bridge over which to pass from a loveless marriage to a love one? My action would certainly be so construed by many. But, when all was said and done, what could the judgment of others matter to me? And how much better to be a pious lay sister who stood loyally by the Order, than a sister of the Order whose heart lingered without. Yes, even if Angulimala only brought me the information that my Kamanita was still alive, and I could gather from the account of their meeting that my loved one was ever true to me in his faithful heart, then I would be able myself to make a pilgrimage to Ujjeni. And I pictured to myself how I should one morning, as a wandering ascetic, stand at the door of thy house, how thou wouldst with thine own hands fill my alms-bowl, and in doing so wouldst recognise me—and then all the indescribable joy of having found one another again.
To be sure, it was a long journey to Ujjeni, and it was not seemly for a nun to travel alone. But I did not need to seek long for a companion. Just at this time Somadatta came to a sad end. His passion for the fatal dice had gradually enslaved him, and after gambling away all his substance he drowned himself in the Gunga. Medini, deeply distressed by her loss, now entered the Order. It was perhaps not so much the religious life itself, in all its strict severity, and with its lofty aims, that drew her irresistibly to this sacred grove, as the need she felt to be always in my neighbourhood; for her childlike heart clung with touching fidelity to me. And so I did not doubt that when I revealed my purpose to her, she would go with me to Ujjeni—yes, if need be, to the end of the world. Even already her company in many ways helped to rouse me; while I, on the other hand, by comforting words, softened her genuine grief for the loss of her husband.
As the time approached when Angulimala’s return might be expected, I went every afternoon to the southwest edge of the wood, and sat, down under a beautiful tree on some rising ground whence I could follow with my eye to a great distance the road he would be obliged to take. I imagined he would reach the goal of his
