have confessed on the rack regarding the murder of the
young merchant Kāmanīta of Ujjenī.”
“Kāmanīta was not murdered,” answered the
robber gruffly, “but taken prisoner and made away with,
according to our customs.”
And he now related to me in a few words what my
father had already told me of the matter.
I stood, meanwhile, with my back to the Asoka
tree, and supported myself by clutching the trunk with
both hands, burying my finger‐nails convulsively in the
bark in order to keep myself from falling.
When Angulimāla had finished speaking, every‐
thing seemed to be going round in a whirl. But even then
I did not give up.
“You are an infamous robber and murderer,” I
said, “what value can your word have for me? Why should
you not say what is commanded to you by the one into
whose power your villainies have brought you?”
And, as if by an inspiration which astonished even
myself, and caused a glimmer of hope to flash up within
me, I added:
“You do not dare to look me in the eyes even once
— you, the terror of all human beings, and me, a weak
girl! You do not dare — because at the instigation of this
man you are telling a cowardly lie.”
Angulimāla did not look up, but he laughed
harshly and answered in a voice that sounded like the
growling of a fettered beast of prey:
“What good end would be served by looking you
in the eyes? I leave that to young dandies. The eyes of an
infamous robber you would believe as little as his words.
And his oath would, I suppose, signify just as little.”
He came a step nearer.
“Well then, maiden, be witness now to the Rite of
Truth.”
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Once again the lightning of his glance struck me as
it swept upward and fixed itself upon the moon in such a
way that, in the midst of the tangle of his discoloured hair
and beard, only the whites of his eyes were still visible.
His breast heaved, so that the red flowers moved as in a
dance, and with a voice like that of thunder rolling among
the clouds, he called aloud:
“You who tame the tiger, snake‐crowned Goddess
of Night! You who dance by moonlight on the pinnacles of
the mountains, your necklace of skulls swaying and
crashing, gnashing your teeth, swinging your blood‐filled
skull‐cup! Mother Kālī! Mistress of the robbers! You who
have led me through a thousand dangers, hear me! Truly
as I have never withheld a sacrifice from you; truly as I
have ever loyally observed your laws; truly as I did deal
with this Kāmanīta according to our statute — the statute
which commands us Senders when the ransom does not
arrive by the appointed hour, to saw the prisoner through
the middle and cast his remains on the public road —
just as truly stand by me now in my direst need, rend my
chains, and free me from the hands of my enemies.”
As he said this he made a mighty effort — the
chains rattled and shattered, arms and legs were free, the
two soldiers who held him lay prone on the earth, a third
he struck down with the iron links which hung at his wrists
and before any one of us clearly understood what was
happening, Angulimāla had swung himself over the
parapet. With a fierce shout Sātāgira gave chase.
That was the last I saw or heard.
Afterwards I learned that Angulimāla had fallen,
broken a foot and had been captured by the guard; that he
had later died in prison under torture, and that his head
had been placed over the east gate of the town where
Medinī and Somadatta had seen it.
With Angulimāla’s Rite of Truth my last doubt and
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my last hope left me. For I knew well that even the fear‐
some Goddess Kālī could not have worked a miracle to
rescue him if he had not had the strength which truth lent
to his side.
As to what should now become of me I troubled
myself little, for on this earth everything good was hence‐
forth lost. Only in the Paradise of the West could we two
meet again. You had gone before me and I would, as I
ardently hoped, soon follow. Only there could happiness
blossom — all else was a matter of indifference.
As Sātāgira now continued to press his suit, and my
mother, always wailing and weeping, kept on making
representations to me that she would die of a broken heart
if through me she should suffer the disgrace of having a
daughter remain unmarried in the house of her parents:—
She might just as well have given birth to the ugliest
maiden in Kosambī! Little by little my resistance weakened.
Over and above this, I no longer had so much
bitterness to bring against Sātāgira as before: I could not
avoid recognising the steadfastness and fidelity of his
attachment, and I also felt that I owed him gratitude for
having avenged the death of my belovèd.
Thus, after almost another year had passed, I sadly
became the bride of Sātāgira.
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