“O my lord—O beloved of my heart—thou Krishna—whither thou goest permit that I go also! If thou art to appear before thy great god, suffer me to remain at thy side. Spurn me not for that I am a woman. Did I not vow to thee long since that, since thou wast my true husband, I, thy faithful one, would not suffer thee to die alone, but, performing the suttee with mine own hand, would accompany thy spirit to its blest abode? And I swear now by the faithfulness of Radha, and by Lakshmi and Devi and the divine Ushas, that, if thou goest forth alone into the presence of the gods, I will surely follow thee. Wherefore, thou, who hast loved me well, grant me a last boon. Let me go forth and die with thee, that we may be judged together, and, if thou lovest me still, together endure our punishment.” “Consider thy words, Ahalya. Just now thou’rt not thyself. Return to the palace and dwell there quietly, and let peace come into thy heart. I absolve thee from that old vow of love. There is no one that could suspect thee of this murder. I have done it; and this my absence will proclaim. Bhavani knows nothing. He is now with Churi, and thou canst tell the child what thou wilt. Return, then, to the house of the Rajah, and forget—and forgive—my sins.” “Nay! Nay, nay, nay!” It was the first time that either of their voices had been raised. “I will not be absolved from my oath! I will not be left alone to face the terrors of Kutashala Máli! Take me with thee, else, by mine own hand, I die alone. Oh consider the sweetness of death together! Consider the terror of death alone!” “Again—I plead with thee!” “No, no. If thou diest, I also will die.” “But thou knowest, Ahalya, that I cannot live. Thou knowest that to wait will mean either execution by torture for the murder of a Brahman-Kshatriya, or a long and agonizing death through my curse. And I, coward-like, perhaps, choose here a swifter and more merciful end. Yet, if thou wilt, I will return with thee to the palace and wait there for what may come.” For an instant Ahalya considered. Then she answered: “Nay, beloved, I will not have thee return to the palace. Only take me with thee that I may not die alone.” “And if I took thee with me? How should we die?” “What was it that thou wouldst have done, going up alone?” “I have here the dagger that slew Ragunáth.” Ahalya shuddered. “Not that! Listen. Thou knowest that by my people there are certain waters held sacred to the gods, so that those that die in them are cleansed of many sins. Such a stream is the broad Narmáda, which to us is the little Gunga, the promised sacred flood. Let us, then, under cover of night, go down to the river and there, in the same moment, die together—thou in my arms, I in thine.” Fidá reflected. “How shall we reach the river?” he asked.