The story is pure fabrication from start to finish." The
discussion that followed ended in a lifelong rupture between my
theosophist kinsman and myself.
THE VICTORY
She was the Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had
never seen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would
raise his voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen
hearers in the screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his
song towards the star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light,
the planet who ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound
would come to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the
ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red
tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the
fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he
wove his songs to the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in
his mind as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and
whose anklets they were that sang to the time of his beating heart.
Pages:
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44