Late in the evening of the same day that he had left the height, Oman appeared at the door of Poussa’s hut; and found that the years had changed it little. Poussa, now a woman of some authority in the village, though she was not yet thirty, received him with joyful acclaim, and with a reverence that she gave neither to the head-man nor to the priest of her community. She feasted him on rice and curry, millet bread, dried fruits, and sweetmeats, and gave him to drink out of a jar of mellow (not too precious) wine. They ate alone, he and she; and he slept the whole night in her hut before she deigned to acquaint the village that the great hermit was among them. Oman, who had expected to spend the next day at the loom, to pay his debt of food to Poussa, found himself, instead, a centre of attraction to the whole village, and was obliged to submit, for a matter of twelve hours, to the entertainment of the chief citizens of the hamlet, and as many visitors as had time to reach him that day. At dusk he was borne to the room of the gods in an old palanquin, carried on the shoulders of eager Vaisyas. And there a sacrifice was conducted, and Soma was drunk, and fires were lighted in the council square. They also demanded of him an address; and Oman talked, preaching a little of his own creed, couched in the simplest language. His audience, accustomed, like all Hindoos, to thoughts of the broadest abstraction, gave close attention, and, getting his meaning, approved it, because of the novelty of his ideas. Later he was borne back, triumphant, to Poussa’s hut. That night Oman could not sleep for very joy. Here at last was—success. At last men had given him free right of brotherhood, and more. He had known the respect, the reverence, of his own kind. By a miracle, the outcast was become the acclaimed among men. The cost of it, those bitter years of loneliness and despair, was not counted now. Oman knew only that he was welcome, was honored among the people; and his heart went out to them in praise and thanksgiving. Nevertheless, he stayed only a day longer in this mountain hamlet. His departure was not easy. Through Poussa it had become known that he was Brahman-born; and immediately a post as second priest was offered him by Nala himself. Here Oman might have ended his days, universally revered and beloved. But Fate was pulling at his sleeve. The yearning for the dreamland, the land of the Ruby, had not left him; and his heart told him that it actually existed, while Fate whispered in his ear, bidding him go find it. Thus, obedient to the voice, he said farewell to his new friends, detached Poussa’s clinging hands from his knees, smoothed the rough hair back from her face, pressed his lips to her brow, and then set off, alone, into the jungle.