stinately clings to her image, utterly refusing to be torn away. And
notwithstanding all that those two rascals said in her disparagement,
my soul laughs them to utter scorn, telling them they lie. And who
knows? For who could believe that a body so unutterably lovely could
harbour a soul so unutterably base as they said, on evidence such as
theirs? Aye! my recollection of her soul is an argument in her favour
that nothing that they said can overcome, and I could forgive her
absolutely anything, when I think of the gentle sweetness that echoed
in her every word, resembling a perfume somehow mixed with her voice.
And yet if my resolution wavers, even now, how will it be when she
actually stands before me as she will to-night? And yet, how is it
possible to absolve her for her inexplicable behaviour to me?

And so as I mused, touching all unconsciously the strings of my lute
which was lying in my hands suddenly a thought came into my mind of
its own accord. And I took the lute and unstrung it, and chose from
among its strings one, which I rolled like a bangle on my wrist. And I
said to the lute aloud: Old love, we will work together: for if indeed
she is my enemy, she is thine as well. And if, as those assassins
said, she is only a body without a soul, playing on us both merely for
her own amusement, then we will give her together a music lesson of a
novel kind, and teach her that the deadliest of all poisons is a love
that has been betrayed.

And suddenly I heard loud laughter, like an echo to my words. And I
looked up, and lo! there was Haridasa, standing in the open door. And
he said: What is this, O Shatrunjaya? Whom art thou about to poison,
or who is going to poison thee? And hast thou solved thy problem,
since I saw thee from the camel's back, pondering on thy own beauty?
Or hast thou arrived already at the poison in the bottom of love's
cup? How is good advice thrown away upon a fool! Did I not warn thee?
Wilt thou never understand that the nectar of a woman is like the red
of dusk, lasting for but an instant, and like the cream of milk,
turning sour if it is kept, and like foam of the sea, which exists
only during agitation, melting away into bitterness and ordinary water
as soon as it is still? As indeed every woman well knows, without
needing to be told, and therefore it is that she is nectar always to a
stranger, and insipid, even when she is not very disagreeable, to her
friends, losing her fascination, like