In secret and in very ordinary fashion Gobind Lâl passed his days there. In a year's time the little money he had brought from Prasâdpur was exhausted; he had nothing left wherewith to support life. So, after six years, the thought arose in his mind to write to Bhramar.
He gathered together pen, ink, and paper, and sat down to write. I will admit that in doing so he wept. He thought, "How can I tell if Bhramar is yet alive? To whom shall I write? Well, I can but try; at any rate my letter will come back to me, and from that I shall know Bhramar is no more."
It took him long to decide what to say. Finally he thought, "What great harm can there be if I write in the ordinary way to one whom I have abandoned for ever, through no fault of hers?" So he wrote—
"Bhramar,—After six years this vile one writes you a letter. If you feel so disposed read it, if not, tear it up unread. I think you must have heard all that my fate has brought upon me. If I say it is the fruit of my acts, you may recall to mind that I am only saying
