The young prince went away in the middle of the Ashtaka month (December). His going made no change in Mandu, save that it gave the people an added interest outside their monotonous lives. The pleasant winter passed slowly away. Bhavani had begun to depend much on his appointed teacher of men; and Oman left his unheeded labors among the lowly in order to watch over his dearly loved lord. Bhavani was sad; missed his son; suffered keenly, but did not complain. Oman himself never suspected how much that royal soul endured, silently. But, as the days passed, he became more and more aware of a changing aspect in many things. There was in him a sense of foreboding, a feeling of finality, indefinable, omnipresent. Zenaide also felt it, and her melancholy became unconquerable. She knew what the outer senses could not tell her; and even Oman’s quietly proffered sympathy was repelled. Bhavani doubtless guessed all that passed in their minds; but he could not take their burden from them. He knew himself to be too near the end. He could only spare them anxiety by the silent endurance of pain. The end came sooner than even he, perhaps, had expected. It was in February, about the middle of the month; and early thrills of spring hung in the air. On the eighteenth day, at noon, Oman, who was in his own room after a long morning in the school, was roused by Bhavani’s favorite slave and conducted swiftly through the palace to Bhavani’s bedroom. Bhavani was on his couch; and Oman, who had not seen him since the previous evening, at once knew everything. The room was in confusion. Evidently many people—doctors, priests, slaves—had been there recently. Why they were now gone, Oman could not surmise. Bhavani lay breathing in long, heavy gasps, with intervals of startling length. His face wore the gray hue of death. His eyes were closed; but he felt Oman’s entrance, for he put out his hand, and Oman took it and fell upon his knees beside the bed. “Let me summon help for thee,” he said, in a low, clear voice that suggested nothing of what he felt. “No,” gasped the dying one. Then, after an effort, he added: “I hear Brahma’s voice. Shall I not—answer it?” Oman could not speak. He buried his head near the face of his friend. It seemed to him, at that moment, that Fate had found a cruelty too great for passive endurance. For Oman loved this man as he had never hoped to love in life. It was like tearing his heart in two to watch that inevitable, resistless advance of death. Yet, with the heroism that was in him, he accepted Bhavani’s own decree: feeling, indeed, that there was no human help for his King.