her, clear
through the clamor and din of battle, the braying of the conches, the
neighing of the stallions, the shrill, angry trumpeting of the
elephants--

A voice sharp, compelling, bitter--

"Captive to my bow and spear, little flower, but a slave for the king,
my master. For such is the law of Hind. He will love you--not being
altogether a fool. But perhaps you will not love him. Being but a
stammering virgin boy, perhaps he will heap your lap with all the
treasures in the world. Being an honest gentleman, perhaps he will treat
you with respect and tenderness, with the sweet fairness of the blessed
gods. And perhaps--even then--you will not love him, little flower.

"Perhaps you will turn to the captain of horse as the moon rises like a
bubble of passion from the deep red of the sunset. Perhaps you will read
the meaning of the koel-bird's love-cry, the secret of the jessamine's
scent, the sweet, throbbing, winglike call of all the unborn children in
the heart and body and soul of Madusadan, captain of horse."

"A bold man, this captain of horse!" Vasantasena had smiled through her
tears, through the savage clang of battle.

"A reckless man--yet a humble man, little flower. Reckless and humble as
the moist spring monsoon that sweeps over the young shoots of
bluish-white rice. For"--here he had put her in front of him, on the
curve of the peaked, bossed saddle--"will the rice ripen to the touch of
the savage, clamoring monsoon?"

And he had drawn slightly away from her. He had not even kissed her,
though they were shielded from all the world by the folds of the great
battle flag that was stiff with gold, stiffer with darkening gore. In
the fluttering heart of Vasantasena rose a great longing for this
insolent warrior who spoke of love--and touched her not.

_This is the tale of the grape that is never pressed, that never
loses its sweetness, though white hands squeeze its pulp, day
after day, night after night._

_This is the tale of the book that is never read to the end,
though eyes, moist and smarting with longing, read its pages
till the candles gutter out in the gray dawn wind and the young
sun sings its cosmic song out of the East, purple and golden._

_This is the tale of love which rises like a mist of ineffable
calm, then sweeps along on the red wings of eternal desire--the
tale of love that is a chain forged of steel and scent, a chain
of unbreakable ste