Gobind Lâl sat at the foot of a broken statue. The mid-day come, he still sits there. The intense heat burns his head, but he feels it not, his life is going. Since night he had thought only of Bhramar, of Rohini, first one, then the other, continuously. Now Bhramar, now Rohini seemed to rise before his eyes; the world seemed filled with these two figures. Sitting in that garden each shrub took the form of Bhramar; Rohini sat in the shade of every tree. Now Bhramar seemed to be standing there, and again she was gone; now Rohini came, and she too vanished. Every sound seemed to be the voice of one or the other. The voices of the people on the ghât seemed now that of Bhramar, now of Rohini; now the two in conversation. The rustling of dry leaves seemed the sound of Bhramar's approach; the moving of insects in the wood, that of the flight of Rohini. The swaying of a bough in the wind seemed the expiring sigh of Bhramar; the call of the dayal the song of Rohini. The world was filled with Bhramar, with Rohini.
Twelve o'clock, half-past one, Gobind Lâl
