tive and also the fresh life-giving breeze in that lovely open space, soon restored to Shaibalini her lost consciousness.
"Where am I now?," inquired Shaibalini, as she opened her eyes.
"I have brought you out of the cave," replied Chandra Shekhar in a gentle voice.
All on a sudden Shaibalini again shuddered—fear again seized her—in an unnatural voice she asked, "Who are you?"
Chandra Shekhar too got frightened—he said, "What is it that upsets you so much? Why can't you recognise me? Look here, I am your husband."
Shaibalini laughed aloud, and said,
"My sweet love like the golden flies,
From flower to flower their sweetness tries;
Have you dear, your fond path forgotten,
And so come to this prickly thorn?—
Are you Lawrence Foster?"
Chandra Shekhar could feel that the Goddess of consciousness, who adorn the human nature and lends it that charm and grace which characterise it, was about to leave Shaibalini, and a hideous madness was gradually occupying what was once
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