It had served him better, indeed, if he had put away his hesitancy. For he was now in the region where all men knew Mandu, and he might have saved himself a weary walk. At the end of six days’ journeying, about the full-moon day of the Sravana month (March), he came to the southern boundary of the Vindhyas, and, through an opening on the slope, looked out over the Dekkhan. It was the first time in eleven years that he had seen the plain; and there was joy in the sight,—but anxiety also. For where was Mandu, high Mandu, “that stands on the edge of the plain”? Had he come too far to the west, or was he yet too near the rising sun? Fortunately, a little below him, on the hillside above the flat land, he perceived a town, whither he directed his steps, and there, because it was become a necessity, asked his way. He was answered, readily, that Mandu was still a day’s journey to the east; and he was furthermore given directions so minute, that, pausing only to eat a piece of bread and drink some goat’s milk offered by a hospitable peasant, he started again that same night, under the light of the radiant moon. Again he took his way up into the hills, following the course laid out for him, until, about dawn, he found a well-kept roadway such as he had not before seen in the Vindhyas. And now, his uncertainty banished at last, he lay down beside the road, in the shadow of a pipal tree, to sleep. When he awoke, it was noon. For a little while he lay still, puzzled and thinking, for he had slept heavily. Suddenly it rushed upon him, the great sense of finality. And, with a prayer in his heart, he rose up, and took the road, starting southward at a rapid pace. The way wound round and down, through a rocky gorge which he had a vague sense of having passed through before. Then it began to re-ascend, and Oman’s excitement grew. He felt that he was nearing the climax of his life. It was just this that he had unconsciously waited for through the years. And now it had come! At the top of the eminence the veiling trees suddenly parted, and, in the flooding light of afternoon, he found himself looking along the stone-built causeway that Rai-Khizar-Pál, returning from triumphant war in the north, had crossed, with his captives, thirty-one years before. Faint, quick-breathing, Oman halted, leaning on his staff, to gaze upon the scene. It appeared to him most natural, most right, that, at this moment, with its familiar little whirring sound, a slender-winged gray bird should come hovering up from the wood and seek shelter in his breast. With the advent of this companion creature, his vision was doubled. Twice before had he known this road. There had been a bride of Dhár, and a captive from Delhi. The feelings of both were mingled in him:—bitter pain, veiled joy, curiosity, hope, weariness. He saw the bright pageants pass slowly before him; and then, leisurely, he moved downward to the bridge.