Ragunáth went up to the princess and bowed before her as profoundly as Fidá himself had bowed. Evidently, at the same time, he spoke. Ahalya, however, began at once to move backward, away from him, he following her by degrees, till they had proceeded clear across the court. And then, suddenly, at the veranda step, the young woman turned around, and literally ran into the women’s apartments, whither none could follow her. Ragunáth would be coming back now, and Fidá perceived the necessity for a quick escape. In a moment or two he was back in the broad corridor; and, looking round the angle into the passage, saw Ragunáth come slowly in from the court and enter his own rooms. From the man’s walk Fidá read enough to satisfy him. “She was not waiting,” he thought; and at the idea his spirits rose dizzily. Yet, after all, in this last pleasant surmise he was wrong. CHAPTER III AHALYA Short of breath, flushed of face, and discomposed in temper, the Ranee Ahalya entered her day-room after the brief interview with Ragunáth. As she appeared, a girl, who sat on some cushions at the side of the room, working at a piece of embroidery, rose and bowed, and then asked eagerly: “Did he come?” Ahalya flung herself down on the broad divan that ran across the end of the room under the screened windows. “Yes, he came,” she said, petulantly. Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added: “I hate him, Neila.” “Did he—what did he say?” asked the handmaid, forgetting her work as she watched her mistress. “I don’t know what he said. How should I? I did not think of him. But I think he dishonors the gods. They were all at sacrifice, and he stole away because he does not like Soma. Nor is it good,” she added, with a touch of sympathy. “But he is a man, and should have a man’s tastes.” Ahalya shrugged her shoulders, and the two of them were silent for a few minutes, Neila waiting patiently for the mystery that she knew her lady would reveal—in time. Presently, indeed, the Ranee began to speak, in a low, reflective tone as if she were merely thinking aloud. “In all those months when my lord and the rest were away, fighting, I have thought many times of Ragunáth, who was kind to me at my first coming here. I thought I should be happy when he came again. I wanted him to come. And oh, Neila, thou knowest the days have been long and lonely, and I have been sick for Dhár and for my mother. My lord is very tender of me, and I know that he is good. But he is not young and beautiful to look on. His eyes are not bright nor do his lips smile when he sees me. And Ragunáth seemed younger and more in love with life. Last night, when I danced the poppy dance, it was for him. But, Neila, I have perceived that he is not a man. He makes me think of a snake, with his shiny eyes and his long, still hands. He does not burn with an honest fire.—Ugh, I hate him! So will I tell my lord.”