aromatic flowering plant. Whoever might have advised this vow, had surely a thorough insight into the deep recesses of the human heart. A lonely silent darkness devoid of human presence, added to that an exhausted frame afllicted with hunger and the mind absorbed in one single idea, at such a moment whatever object the mind fixes upon, it becomes saturated with it after a persistent meditation. In these circumstances with a worn-out frame and mind, in a concentrated meditation on her husband, Shaibalini lost her consciousness.
Was it really a cessation of consciousness or the bursting of the spiritual vision? From out of the innermost recesses of her soul she saw with her new eyes oh, what a figure! That figure shaming the sal tree in stature, with its finely moulded arms, its handsome proportions, full of strength and grace—oh, what a peak of beauty! That forehead, extensive, anointed with sandal-wood paste, furrowed with the lines of thought, is fit for the resting place of Saraswati [1], the battlefield of Indra[2], the pleasure-bower of Madan,[3] the throne of Lakshmi[4] —what is Protap to this! Fie! Fie! the Ganges compared with the ocean! Those sparkling, laughing, shifting, swimming eyes, at once large and wide-open, piercing but placid, full of tenderness and pity, with a slight touch of humour, and ever inquisitive-can Protap’s eyes be compared with these? Oh, why was I tempted, why did I yield, why did I fall! That handsome, powerful figure, like the sal tree with its green shoots, like the deodar entwined with the racemosa, like a hill covered with blossoms—
