At dusk, Poussa returned, staggering under a weight of boughs. Oman met her at the door, and took half of her load from her, as a woman might, she standing by the while, wondering what manner of man it was that would help her at such a task. When the Agnihotra was burning the two sat down, cross-legged, beside the fire; and she, assuming for a moment, unconsciously, a rôle of Fate, began to try him, tempting: “O High-born, listen! It has been spread about through the village that thou, a master weaver, art come among us. Soon my brother-in-law will ask you to take up your abode with him, that you may jointly ply the trade. My master, say not again that thou art outcast of men. Come thou and dwell near me, and let me serve thee, who will then have the happiness of thy nearness. As Krishna pities women and protects them, so do thou!” It was thus that she brought up a new battle in Oman’s soul. Two forces struggled again within him: one, man’s natural need; the other—what? The summoning of the higher law? The half-conscious necessity for the fulfilment of his mission? Something of these. Something that would not yield the battle. Something that had taken possession of Oman’s mind, and would not lessen its hold, but forced from him words that were scarcely his own. Yet even secretly rebelling, he recognized the power that had hitherto held him. He perceived that it was the first choice that had been given him:—his first glimpse of the two roads that stretch before every living thing. And, in gratitude for this new trust, he yielded to the power, and spoke as Prophets speak: “Nay, Poussa. I may not dwell among you. My way lies upward and on. My destiny cannot be the destiny of men; for I travel the road of those that have sinned. ‘A burning forest shuts my roadside in.’ One more night I shall remain with you, and then I set out again—up—to the heights above, there to finish my soul’s travail. Yet I shall see thee again; for, in my weakness, I must return to thee for help. Do not grieve. For what I do has been already decreed, and is now turning from the wheel of present time. Let us speak of it no more.” Poussa obeyed him. Nor was he to be moved by the suave arguments of Salivan, who returned, that evening, to examine his work, and to lay the proposition of partnership before him. Yet, in the silent watches of the night, doubts came, and he wondered at himself for his choice. The morning scarcely brought comfort; and how it was that he fulfilled his word, it would be hard to say. But it is true that, while the day was young, he withdrew himself from Poussa’s clasp and set out, alone once more, into the world, up, toward the great mountain that overhung the village to the north, and was called of men the “Silver Peak”. Thither went Oman, driven by destiny, to attain to the heights that held for him, though he knew it not, on the one hand the scourge of suffering and blind wandering for the soul; on the other the crown of victory and life.