“Cursed be the Asra by Osman: cursed this day and forevermore any man of them that loveth woman as I have loved Zenora. Let him die in the first year of his loving, though from east to west he seek a cure. And to him that taketh from another a promised wife, may the curse of Allah the Avenger seek him out till he be hidden in the depth of Hell. Thus I, Osman, curse thy race!” Down from far generations rolled these words into the ears of the youngest of the Asra, who, hearing them, uttered a deep cry, and, swaying for a moment where he stood, presently fell, face down, into the dead grass beside the pool. CHAPTER VIII THE CURSE The night moved quietly on, the moon dropped westward, and still Fidá, lying there on the dead kusa grass, did not stir. From his swoon he had fallen into a heavy sleep which was unmoved by the slow passing of the night. The far mountains, oblivious of the havoc they had wrought upon a human mind, reared themselves grimly toward the stars, and out of their fringing forests came now and then the roar of some king animal, or the melting cry of a night-bird. Little by little the moon paled and the stars grew dim, and a white mist rose over the far-flowing river. The cold breath of dawn was upon the world, and in its inimitable stillness the slave, wakened perhaps by the throbbing of his own pulses, opened his eyes dully, and shivered and then rose and stood staring down into the pool, struggling to free himself from the bonds of oblivion and of sleep. When the memory of the past night opened before him, it was as if he contemplated the undoing of another man. He made no attempt, he had no wish, to think or to reflect upon himself. The dawn was upon him—the sacred hour. Already, in the east, a pale, clear light had lifted itself upon the horizon. One or two silent birds—kites—floated over the walls of the water palace and began to sink slowly into the depth of the plain. In the village a dog howled, an ass brayed. Instinctively the spectator inclined his ear for the muezzin’s call to prayer. But there was audible only the flutelike note of the newly wakened koïl. The east brightened. The clouds over the Vindhyas grew rosy, and the river mist was tinged with gold. In the fresh morning air Fidá could perceive how his brain burned, how his head throbbed. His body was racked with misery, but there was a great clearness in his mind:—no searching, no thinking, only a sudden upliftment and a simple sense of gratitude to nature for this, her hour. Prayer was not upon his lips; but at last it lay in his heart:—the great natural prayer that the first Hindoo, waking on his world two thousand years before, had felt and could not utter.