palm of his hand as an
umbrella with which to shield his loved one against the splintering,
merciless rays of Surya, the Sun, the jealous, yellow god.

"Love can do all things--except one. For love can never create love,
wise king. Love can force the stream to flow up-hill, but it cannot
create the stream when there is no water."

Silence dropped like a shadow of fate, and Vikramavati turned slowly
and walked toward the palace.

"To-morrow," he said over his shoulder, in an even, passionless voice,
"you shall die a death of lingering agony."

Madusadan laughed lightly.

"There is neither to-day nor to-morrow nor yesterday for those who
love," he replied. "There is only the pigeon-blue of the sunlit sky, the
crimson and gold of the harvest-fields, the laughter of the far waters.
Love fills the cup of infinity."

"To-morrow you will be dead," the king repeated dully.

And again Madusadan laughed lightly.

"And what then, O wise king, trained in the rigid logic of Brahmin and
Parohitas?" he asked. "Will our death do away with the fact that once we
lived and, living, loved each other? Will the scarlet of our death wipe
out the streaked gray of your jealousy? Will our death give you the love
of Vasantasena, which never was yours in life? Will our death rob our
souls of the memory of the great sweetness which was ours, the beauty,
the glory, the never-ending thrill of fulfillment?"

"Love ceases with death."

"Love, wise king, is unswayed by the rhythm of either life--or death.
Love--that surges day after day, night after night, as year after year
the breast of the earth heaves to the spring song of the ripening rice,
to the golden fruit of the mango groves.

"Death? A fig for it, wise king!

"Let me but live until to-morrow in the arms of my loved one, and the
sweetness of our love shall be an unbreakable chain--on through a
thousand deaths, a thousand new births, straight into Nirvana--into
Brahm's silver soul!"

"Ahee!" echoed Vasantasena. "Let death come and the wind of life lull;
let the light fail and the flowers wilt and droop; let the stars gutter
out one by one and the cosmos crumble in the gray storm of final
oblivion--yet will our love be an unbreakable chain, defying you, O
king--defying the world--defying the very gods--"

"But not defying the laws of nature, as interpreted by a wise Brahmin!"
a shrill, age-cracked voice broke in, and Deo Singh, the old prime
minister who had come down the garde