“It isn’t like it,” said my father with brutal calmness,
“it is it. When Angulimāla was made prisoner he was
wearing the chain and Sātāgira at once recognised it. For,
as he related to me, he had once wrestled with Kāmanīta
in the park for your ball and, in the course of the struggle,
had seized Kāmanīta’s chain in order to hold him back.
The chain parted and remained in Sātāgira’s hands so that
he was able to examine it very carefully. He was convinced
that he couldn’t be deceived. And then Angulimāla, when
closely questioned, confessed that two years ago he had
attacked Kāmanīta’s caravan on its return to Ujjenī, in the
region of the Vedisa, had cut down his people and had
taken Kāmanīta prisoner, along with a servant. The ser‐
vant he sent to Ujjenī for ransom. As this was not forthcoming
for some reason, he had put Kāmanīta to death,
according to the custom of the robbers.”
At these frightful words I should certainly have lost
consciousness, had not a possibility presented itself to my
despairing mind of hoping against hope.
“Sātāgira is a low and crafty snake,” I answered,
with apparent calm, “who would not hesitate to cheat us;
and he has set his heart, or rather his pride, upon gaining
me for his wife. If he, at the time you speak of, examined
the chain so attentively, what was to hinder him from
having one made like it? I imagine that this idea occurred
to him when he first heard of Angulimāla. If he had not
taken Angulimāla himself prisoner, he could always say
that the chain had been found in possession of the rob‐
bers, and that they had confessed to having killed
Kāmanīta.”
“That is hardly possible, my daughter,” said my
father, shaking his head, “and for a reason which you, it is
true, cannot see, but which I, as a goldsmith, can fortu‐
nately reveal. If you will examine the small gold links
which connect the crystals with one another, you will
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notice that the metal is redder than that of our jewellery
here, because we use in our alloys more silver than copper.
The workmanship also is of the somewhat coarser
type seen in the mountain districts.”
On my lips there hung the reply:— So clever a
goldsmith as himself would, no doubt, succeed as perfectly
in the matter of the proper mixture of the gold as in
turning out the characteristic workmanship. For I saw
every one and everything conspiring against our love, and
did not trust even my nearest relatives. However, I ended
the matter by saying that I would not allow myself to be
convinced by this mere chain that my Kāmanīta was not
still alive.
My father left me in great anger and then, in solitude,
I was able to give myself wholly up to my despair.
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~ 27 ~
T
HE RITE OF TRUTH
A
T THAT TIME I always spent the first hours of
the night on the Terrace of the Sorrowless, either
alone or with Medinī. On the evening of the day of
which I have just spoken, I was there by myself and,
considering the state of mind in which I then was, solitude
was my best companion. The full moon shone as on those
memorable nights of the past, and I stood before the great
Asoka with its wealth of blossoms, to beg from it, the
Heartsease, a comforting omen for my troubled heart.
After some time I said to myself — “If, between me and
the trunk, a saffron‐yellow flower should fall before I
have counted to a hundred, then my belovèd Kāmanīta is
still alive.”
*
*
*
When I had counted to fifty a flower fell, but an
orange‐coloured one. When I reached eighty I began to
count more and more slowly. Just then a creaking door
opened in the corner between the terrace and the wall of
the house, where a stair led down into the courtyard — a
flight of steps really intended only for workmen and
gardeners.
My father came forward, and behind him Sātāgira.
A couple of soldiers armed to the teeth followed, and after
them came a man who towered a full head above the
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others. Finally, yet other soldiers brought up the rear of
this strange, not to say inexplicable, procession. Two of
the latter remained to guard the door, whilst all the others
came directly towards me. At the same time I noticed that
the giant in their midst walked with great difficulty, and
that at every step there resounded a dismal clanking and
rattling.
That very instant a saffron‐yellow blossom floated
down and remained lying just at my feet. I had ceased
counting however, from sheer astonishment and, as a
consequence, could not be sure whether it had fallen
before or after the hundred had been reached.
The group now advanced from the shadow of the
wall into the moonlight and then I saw with horror that the
giant figure was loaded with chains. His hands were
fettered at his back, about his ankles clanked heavy iron
rings which were linked to either end of a huge rod and
were connected by double chains of iron with a similar
ring around his neck. To it, in turn, two other chains were
fastened and these were held by two of the soldiers. As is
usual in the case of a prisoner who is being conducted to
the scaffold, around his neck and on his hairy breast there
hung a wreath of the red Kanavera blossoms; and the
reddish‐yellow brick‐dust with which his head was pow‐
dered caused the hair hanging down over his forehead,
and the beard which reached almost to his eyes, to appear
yet more ferocious. From this mask his eyes flashed out at
me and then fell to the ground, wandering furtively hither
and thither on the floor like those of an evil beast.
As to who stood before me I should not have
needed to inquire, even if the Kanavera blossoms had
concealed the symbol of his terrible name — the necklace
of human fingers.
“Now, Angulimāla,” Sātāgira broke the silence,
“repeat in the presence of this noble maiden what you
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