“And whither—art thou going?” “I do not know, Lord Rajah.” “Thou knowest me!” “Thou—art Bhavani,” muttered Oman, softly, to himself. The Rajah recoiled a step or two, gazing at Oman earnestly. Then he asked, in a new voice: “_Who art thou?_” Oman had now recovered himself enough to reply to Bhavani’s question literally. “I am called Oman Ramasarman. I was born a Brahman.—I have been a Bhikkhu, and a hermit, dwelling in the hills, whence I descended to Mandu.” For a moment, Bhavani’s expression was puzzled. Then he shook himself, slightly, woke from his dream, and observed: “Thou lookest younger than I. What is thine age?” Oman shook his head. “My lord, I do not know. When I went up to dwell on the Silver Peak, my age was nineteen years. But how long I lived there—fifteen, twenty years, perhaps,—I cannot say. It is a lifetime, and yet again it seems to me as if I had not lived there at all: as if I had only known a great vision, that has faded away.” “Thou wast young, very young, to go up into the hills alone. And, from thy face, it was indeed many years before thou camest down. Then tell me, Oman: was that solitude very terrible to endure?” Oman’s eyes grew vague. It was as if he looked into the infinite as he replied: “Yes, it was terrible. I am told that not many can live as did I, in utter solitude, and, at the end of five years, still retain reason and speech. The Chelahs that go up into the fastnesses, for prayer and the study of sacred manuscripts, go two together, and, by companionship, preserve their minds. But I had no companion. I was outcast of men.” “Outcast! Thou? A Brahman?” “Outcast! Of what do ye speak?” came a woman’s voice, from behind them. Both men turned, instantly; and Oman drew in his breath. Before him stood the most beautiful woman that he had ever dreamed of. She was tall and voluptuously built; and her coloring was radiant. According to the privilege of her class, she wore no veil over her face; and as a covering for her heavy, red-gold hair, she had only an openwork cap of turquoise-studded gold, bordered with a broad band of the polished stones. Her dress was of blue, heavily embroidered; and a wide sash, of palest willow-green, spread smoothly over her hips, and was clasped low in front with a turquoise crescent. The two gazed at her in involuntary, silent admiration; and she bore the look easily, as one accustomed to it. Presently, however, Bhavani returned to himself, and addressed her: “Thou art well come, Zenaide. Behold, here is Oman Ramasarman, a sage, who has come out of the hill fastnesses, to dwell in Mandu.” Then, turning to Oman, he added: “This is the Lady Zenaide, most beautiful, most wise: my friend.”