Like the land-lotus in the grove, like the peacock among birds, a certain fair one, after having finished her toilette, was roving from room to room. One could go anywhere that night. Nature had made the woman the receptacle of her sweets; Katlu Khan had given her every member its appropriate ornament; yet her face did not show any marks of pride either for her beauty or for her ornaments. She knew no mirth, no laugh. Her face was grave—calm—her eyes showed the fire burning within.
After roving here and there, Bimala entered a handsome chamber. She fastened the door. On this festive occasion, a solitary lamp only cast its pale beams around. On the further side stood a couch on which lay some one covered from head to foot with a blanket. Bimala came up to the side of the person and said faintly,
"I am come."
The person on the bed started and withdrew the cover from off her face.
Having recognised Bimala, she put away the blanket and sat up; but spoke nothing.
"Tilottama," said Bimala again, "I am come."
Still Tilottama kept silent; she steadily gazed on Bimala's face.
She was then no longer the bashful girl she had been. Alas! if you saw her then by the pale light, you would think her ten years older than she actually was. Her body was lean and emaciated; her countenance was pale; she wore a short, unclean cloth; her hair was covered with dust; there was not a single ornament on her person, only the traces of her former ornaments remained.
"I told that I would come" again Bimala said, "and have done so. Why don't you speak?"
