Do not listen, my child. Go back to your son, to your own nest darkened with sorrow. My duty has been performed to its extreme cruel end, and nothing now remains for you to do.--Wife, your grief is fruitless. Were the branch dead which was violently snapped from our tree, I should give it to the fire. But it has sent living roots into a new soil and is bearing flowers and fruits. Allow her, without regret, to obey the laws of those among whom she has loved. Come, wife, it is time we cut all worldly ties and spent our remainder lives in the seclusion of some peaceful pilgrim shrine. RAMA I am ready: but first must tread into dust every sprout of sin and shame that has sprung from the soil of our life. A daughter's infamy stains her mother's honour. That black shame shall feed glowing fire to-night, and raise a true wife's memorial over the ashes of my daughter. AMA Mother, if by force you unite me in death with one who was not my husband, then will you bring a curse upon yourself for desecrating the shrine of the Eternal Lord of Death. RAMA Soldiers, light the fire; surround the woman! AMA Father! VINAYAKA Do not fear. Alas, my child, that you should ever have to call your father to save you from your mother's hands! AMA Father! VINAYAKA Come to me, my darling child! Mere vanity are these man-made laws, splashing like spray against the rock of heaven's ordinance. Bring your son to me, and we will live together, my daughter. A father's love, like God's rain, does not judge but is poured forth from an abounding source. RAMA Where would you go? Turn back!--Soldiers, stand firm in your loyalty to your master Jivaji! do your last sacred duty by him! AMA Father! VINAYAKA Free her, soldiers! She is my daughter. SOLDIERS She is the widow of our master. VINAYAKA Her husband, though a Mussulman, was staunch in his own faith. RAMA Soldiers, keep this old man under control! AMA I defy you, mother!--You, soldiers, I defy!--for through death and love I win to freedom. 30 A painter was selling pictures at the fair; followed by servants, there passed the son of a minister who in youth had cheated this painter's father so that he had died of a broken heart. The boy lingered before the pictures and chose one for himself. The painter flung a cloth over it and said he would not sell it. After this the boy pined heart-sick till his father came and offered a large price. But the painter kept the picture unsold on his shop-wall and grimly sat before it, saying to himself, "This is my revenge." The sole form this painter's worship took was to trace an image of his god every morning. And now he felt these pictures grow daily more different from those he used to paint. This troubled him, and he sought in vain for an explanation till one day he started up from work in horror, the eyes of the god he had just drawn were those of the minister, and so were the lips.