I spent the night wandering round and round along the dark, deserted village lanes.
The World of Reality has made a determined onslaught on the Mystic Paradise, within the confines of which the Master sought to keep Satish and myself content by repeatedly filling for us the cup of symbolism with the nectar of idea. Now the clash of the actual with the symbolic bids fair to overturn the latter and spill its emotional contents in the dust. The Master is not blind to this danger.
Satish is no longer himself. Like a paper kite, with its regulating knot gone, he is still high in the skies, but may at any moment begin to gyrate groundwards. There is no falling off as yet in the outward rigour of his devotional and disciplinary exercises, but a closer scrutiny reveals the totter of weakening.
As for my condition, Damini has left nothing so vague in it as to require any guess-work. The more she notices the fear in the Master’s face, and the pain in Satish’s, the oftener she makes me dance attendance on her.
At last it came to this, that when we were
