“And it is thus that you have suffered in your soul, desiring for a companion the noblest of men. But, because you would match your heart with such as him, so you must become his equal, worthy of him. Let his own nobility illumine you. It is unlawful, in the light of the higher law, that you two should love. Show yourself his peer, then, in quenching this desire, and, dwelling near his brain, seek not to unlock the chamber of his heart. Let it not be said that, through you, his high nature has been weakened and defiled. “Nay—speak not yet. I see it in your eyes—how cold my words are to you; how hard. It is true that I feel within me no fire burning. I know little of that restless pain. But, hearing many speak of it, I believe in it; and yet, above, see plainly the great Dharma shining. Receive, then, the truth. Be not defeated in your struggle. Go your way knowing that the blessing of Brahma is upon you for your keeping of the law.” “But, in the end, what reward shall there be for this, my sacrifice? What in the wide world could repay me for the delight of one hour—of one moment, in the strength of his arms?” “The reward is great:—greater, indeed, than any that receive it not can fathom. It comes in the earthly Nirvâna, the high, conscious strength, the calm, the tranquillity, that permeates the soul as water permeates and renews a parched and dying plant. With this peace comes the death of yearning and desire. The pursuits of man and the objects of his struggles—love, power, wealth, fame—these are little to those that feel their futility. And I assert this not as the Dharma, nor as what has been told me; but I speak of what I know. For, Zenaide, that same reward is mine. Many years I labored for it, fighting such battles as you could scarcely understand. But in the end it came;—the great Relief; and, knowing that at last I should be safe to dwell among men, I returned to them, and shall remain among them till my death. The reward is always with me. It cannot leave me now.” “But—” Zenaide sat studying him, his seamed face, his deep-set eyes, his black hair, shaded here and there with a thread of white; and when she spoke, there was a pathetic childishness in her tone: “But thou art old. Thou hast seen life. Desire dies out of the hearts of the aged.” Oman shook his head. “I am not an old man. I was not twenty years old when I went up into the mountains. I dwelt there for many years; but still I am not more than five and thirty. I am younger than Bhavani,” he added, thoughtfully.