‘In one tremendous moment the woman rose far above all the false desires in which she had bred herself. She gave her life for the truth. She sacrificed utterly that false self of hers which was the thing that your false self had so loved through the ages. And for her great merit it must be that she must reap great rewards,--not rewards apportioned by a personal providence, but rewards that spring naturally out of her action. She has shaken herself free of the links that bound her to you. The Buddha enwombed in every mortal Karma has torn away many of the veils that shrouded him in that woman’s heart. Because, in her last moment she loved the true better than the false, and followed rather the higher love that led upwards than the lower love which would have kept her at your side--therefore she is released. The streams are sundered at last on the rock of parting. That bondage of hers has passed away--weak and erring and desirous, perhaps, she still may be--faulty and human, but at least that one chain of desire which held her is snapped and broken utterly. You go hunting for her through all the fields of your earthly life, and she, in an instant, she was cured of all vain longings. Therefore between you there is a gulf fixed for ever. You, in the days of your meeting, will know her and desire her, but she will not know you; she will be free of you for ever, and your recognition will wake in her no answering recognition, and thus of her merit will be doubled your damnation.’ ‘I’ll take the risk of that,’ cried Kingston, wanting to smile at these august fantasies; but the low, husky voice, the faint tremulous manner filled with age and mystery and wisdom compelled his reverent attention. ‘I don’t care whether she knows _me_ or not when we meet again, so long as I know _her_. The sundered streams must meet again somehow. As long as I feel that I have met her again, I can be perfectly happy. That is all I ask.’ ‘The soul lies to itself,’ answered the old man sadly. ‘Festering sorrow you will have in this, and you know it. For all lust, whether of the body or the soul, is sorrow. It cannot be otherwise, for sorrow and lust are two words for the one great falsehood that pervades this visible world of phantoms.’