Oman, faint from long fasting, leaned his head against the door, and looked out across the quiet fields. His thoughts were turned to strange things. He remembered that it was the fourth day of April:—the day when Mandu was accustomed to worship at the distant tombs of Rai-Khizar-Pál, the Woman, and the Slave. There would be no prayers offered there to-day. What matter? What mattered anything? To the strange one, leaning upon the dawn, came a great peace. Perhaps he slept. Certainly he dreamed; for there passed before him, in the faint light, a pageant of those whom he had known. And they called to him, softly, and welcomed him with greetings. First of all, from out of the long ago, came Kota, his mother, who looked on him with tender eyes, as one who had worshipped her first-born; and, with gentle motions, she beckoned to him. Next was Hushka, the Bhikkhu, clad in worn, yellow robes, with a pale nimbus round his head. There was peace in his shining eyes, and Oman knew that he no longer dreaded the weary eight months’ pilgrimage. He had won his eternal Arahatship. Then followed Churi, madness no longer written in his haggard face. He smiled upon Oman, and called a greeting, in friendly voice. After him came Bhavani, looking as in life, an expression of high dignity mingling with the infinite affection in his face. Behind, moved young Viradha, with many wounds; and Zenaide, newly dead, with lilies in her hands. Slowly, slowly they passed from sight: phantasms, perhaps, of Oman’s brain. He thought them gone, when, out of the gray mist, came two more, hand in hand, spirits interlocked, faint, shadowy, as if they did not live even in their ghostly land: a man and a woman. Seeing them, Oman shuddered violently, and shut his eyes. When he looked again upon the world, there was nothing there. He felt only a great warmth in his heart, a burning eagerness to answer the calling of his dead. Thus he straightened up, and started forth, looking neither to the right nor left, in the direction of the great palace. His way was lonely. He met no one till he had passed round the building where the Asra chieftain lay asleep. Behind the palace sat a little group of slaves, eating a meal of millet cakes and milk, which they timidly offered to share with Oman. Oman sat with them, and broke their bread, and drank of their simple beverage; then, rising, he offered them a ring which he wore in memory of Bhavani:—a circlet of plain gold; all that he had upon him of any value. Wondering, the simple creatures accepted it, not in payment for what he had eaten, but because high lords walk always abroad with gifts for the poor. And, proffering thanks to Oman and to Vishnu indiscriminately, they watched the hermit begin his descent of the plateau.