the sacred
offerings.

Her book fell down from her lap, and she whispered in Shrimati's
ears, "Rush not to death, daring woman!"

Shrimati walked from door to door. She raised her head and
cried, "O women of the king's house, hasten!

"The time for our Lord's worship is come!"

Some shut their doors in her face and some reviled her.

The last gleam of daylight faded from the bronze dome of the
palace tower.

Deep shadows settled in street corners: the bustle of the city
was hushed: the gong at the temple of Shiva announced the time of
the evening prayer.

In the dark of the autumn evening, deep as a limpid lake, stars
throbbed with light, when the guards of the palace garden were
startled to see through the trees a row of lamps burning at the
shrine of Buddha.

They ran with their swords unsheathed, crying, "Who are you,
foolish one, reckless of death?"

"I am Shrimati," replied a sweet voice, "the servant of Lord
Buddha."

The next moment her heart's blood coloured the cold marble with
its red.

And in the still hour of stars died the light of the last lamp of
worship at the foot of the shrine.

XLIV

The day that stands between you and me makes her last bow of
farewell.

The night draws her veil over her face, and hides the one lamp
burning in my chamber.

Your dark servant comes noiselessly and spreads the bridal carpet
for you to take your seat there alone with me in the wordless
silence till night is done.

XLV

My night has passed on the bed of sorrow, and my eyes are tired.
My heavy heart is not yet ready to meet morning with its crowded
joys.

Draw a veil over this naked light, beckon aside from me this
glaring flash and dance of life.

Let the mantle of tender darkness cover me in its folds, and
cover my pain awhile from the pressure of the world.

XLVI

The time is past when I could repay her for all that I received.

Her night has found its morning and thou hast taken her to thy
arms: and to thee I bring my gratitude and my gifts that were for
her.

For all hurts and offences to her I come to thee for forgiveness.

I offer to thy service those flowers of my love that remained in
bud when she waited for them to open.

XLVII

I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in her box--a
few small toys for her memory to play with.

With a timorous heart she tried to steal these trifles from
time's turbulent stream, and said, "These are mine only!"