Broken and weak with the strain and terror of the last half-hour, horror-stricken at what was happening now, Ahalya stood like one entranced, watching without sound or movement the combat going on before her. She could not, in the darkness, distinguish between the two forms rolling together on the ground. The men fought without a sound:—Ragunáth with the strength of passion, Fidá with a final fury of jealousy and despair. It lasted only three or four minutes. Then the woman, who, in her terror, stood rocking her body back and forward, holding both hands to the sides of her head as if that helped her to suppress the wild screams on her lips, saw one figure suddenly rise above the other, draw a weapon from his girdle and plunge it once, twice, thrice, into the breast of the other who was struggling to lift himself from the ground. Instantly, with a low, gurgling cry, the body fell back. And Ahalya, peering like a mad-woman into the dusk at the living man, whispered hoarsely: “Fidá—Fidá—is it thou?” And he, who was standing straight and still, his arms hanging at his sides, answered quietly: “Yes, Ahalya. I am here. I have killed him.” CHAPTER X THE SONG OF NARMÁDA For a long time they stood there, in the stillness of the night, looking at each other in a kind of lethargy; while between them, on the ground, lay the body of Ragunáth, gradually chilling, the blood from its three wounds still running thinly down into the pool beside it. Around and over all three of them myriad fireflies fluttered, like stars of the under-world, setting a ghastly glow over the ghastly scene. Fidá’s heart was beating very faintly now. He was obliged to breathe in little gasps. But he was not thinking of this. His mind was groping. He was still in a great darkness when Ahalya came over to him, walking carefully to avoid the blood, and laid both hands on his arm. “Let us go back to the palace,” she whispered. Fidá shook his head. “I think I shall not go back to the palace. I think I shall go on,” he answered. “On! Whither?” “Up. Up to be judged.” “Fidá! Beloved! You will come with me.” But the man was not to be moved by her tone, which was such a one as is used to a sick child. Possibly Fidá was mad, or very near it; but it was a quiet madness, and he was sure of his desires. “Alas, Ahalya, what wrong I have done thee! All the wickedness that man can accomplish I have accomplished. Wherefore I am going up before Allah. But thou must not grieve for me, thou fairest of all women. Thou knowest well that I was very near the end. Most beautiful—most sweet—lotos-lidded, fear not lest I should not take upon my soul the double crime. Thou shalt be freed from all sin in the eyes of Allah and Mohammed. It is the last joy of love that I can perform for thee.” He spoke in a quiet, solemn tone that frightened the woman inexpressibly. As he paused, she threw herself before him, clasping his knees.