ery
slowly: Aranyani, thou art in very truth, for thy timidity and thy eyes,
own sister to the deer: and yet, somehow, I would not have it otherwise,
for thy timidity is not less beautiful than those great eyes which it
fills with apprehension and distrust: and wert thou brave, thy soft body
would not quiver, to fill me with emotion, nor should I now be tasting,
as I kiss thee, the salt beauty of those pearls, thy tears. Stand still,
then, a little while, O pretty little coward, and if thou wilt, tremble
yet a little in my arms, and grow calm, and let me reassure thee: for
thou takest fright at the noise of every rustling leaf, not stopping to
consider, whether there be really anything to injure thee or no. And now
let me ask thee: I have told thee who I am, and shown thee many things
even of thyself, that were unknown to thee: for so far from being
strangers, we are actually kin. And why then shouldst thou fear to come
away? for to whom shouldst thou come, if not to thy own kindred? And
yet, that is the very reason why I cannot ask thy father for thee. For
dost thou think, should I go to him, and ask him, he would bestow thee
on me, or let thee go away? Say, would he consent? And Aranyani said, in
a low voice: If, as thou hast told me, thou really art the son of Jaya,
then rather would he see me lying dead at his feet. And Atirupa said:
Thou seest. Yet why should thou and I be enemies, because our parents
were? And what then, O Aranyani, of the other? Would thy Babhru let thee
go? And she said: Nay, rather would he slay thee, or himself, or it may
be even me. Then said Atirupa: O foolish one, canst thou then not bring
thyself to comprehend, that since I must absolutely go, and none will
let thee go, either thou must come away with me, or stay here by
thyself? And yet, when I show thee the necessity, thou art ready to
consume me like a straw in the flame of thy reproaches. What then?
Wouldst thou have me go away secretly, saying nothing? And wouldst thou
not then exclaim against me as a traitor, never seeing me return? And
dost thou think it easy for me to go away, leaving thee behind? I tell
thee, I cannot go away without thee, and yet I cannot stay. Then only
tell me, what to do. Say, little cousin, why wilt thou fear to come away
with me? I marvel rather that thou dost not fear to stay. What wilt thou
do alone, when I am gone? Will thy father console thee for my absence,
thy father who leaves thee all alone? or will Ba