“Bhavani,—” she began; but her voice broke. “There is no longer a Bhavani,” he answered, wondering at himself for the speech. She took it quietly, letting his hands drop from hers, and turning away so that, for some seconds, he could not see her face. Then she moved nearer him again, and said, in tones not natural, but still well controlled: “Come, let us go into a smaller room.” Oman assented in silence; and she led the way down a short passage to that apartment in which they had held their first interview, many years before. And there she caused him to sit down upon the broad divan, while she took her place at his knee. Again, in their woe, their hands met. And then Zenaide, bowing her head, let tears come. Oman could not weep. His grief was deeper: far more terrible, indeed, than he had believed it could be. His own great creed brought him no comfort. * * * * * Bhavani was entombed in the temple room of the palace, in the place whence his father had been lately removed. The ceremonial of cremation was magnificent; but there was one grave lack in it. No willing women accompanied him into the flames. There were no blood relatives, no children, to mourn at his bier. The spectators, who could remember his father’s entombment, compared with this the wailing concourse which had assembled about that funeral pyre, on which lay the body that had been carried all the way back to Mandu from the disastrous plain of Dhár. Here was no terrible grief of dying concubines and dust-covered widows: no deep-throated sobbing of warrior sons. Two aliens, man and woman, stood together, hand in hand, beside the frightened little bride of Viradha; and these were all, beside the people, that mourned Bhavani’s death. Truly, the royal line of Mandu was fading away! The long ceremony brought to every heart a feeling of emptiness, of forlornity, that was not easy to overcome. The people felt it, and even the Brahmans; and there were those who covertly wondered if young Viradha, returning home, would find his own awaiting him. Fortunately for himself, Oman had no time, in the next few weeks, to grieve. Not knowing just how it came about, he found himself in the position of regent, all Mandu having voluntarily demanded their government of him. There being no other hand ready for the helm, he accepted the place, constituting himself keeper of Viradha’s state, guardian of his honor, treasurer of his heritage: holding himself ready at any moment to deliver all these into the hands of the young King. He clung closely to Bhavani’s methods, finding himself little at a loss to fill a place the duties of which, from constant observation, he had learned so well.