s rival to define who was this Lover and who was the
Beloved. He arrogantly looked around him, he smiled at his followers
and then put the question again: "Who is Krishna, the lover, and who is
Radha, the beloved?"

Then he began to analyse the roots of those names,--and various
interpretations of their meanings. He brought before the bewildered
audience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysics
with consummate skill. Each letter of those names he divided from its
fellow, and then pursued them with a relentless logic till they fell to
the dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaning
never before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.

The pandits were in ecstasy; they applauded vociferously; and the crowd
followed them, deluded into the certainty that they had witnessed, that
day, the last shred of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before their
eyes by a prodigy of intellect. The performance of his tremendous feat
so delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was any
truth behind it after all.

The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was
completely cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the world
around seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to the
solidity of a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones.

To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparison
with this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficulties
at each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evident
to them for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdly
simple, and it must be a mere accident that they did not write them
themselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nor
necessary.

The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting him
to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed
to his seat.

The king in anger came down from his throne--took off his pearl chain
and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the
upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes and
waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and left
the hall.

It was a dark night of waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS.
from his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them contained
his earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over the
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