Lost in that nightmare of his own thoughts, Prithusen’s eyes gazed at the reflection of the stars swirling in the water of the pond. His hand slipped out of Divya’s and rested on the hilt of his sword hanging from his girdle. He did not notice that Divya was staring hard at him. Lost in thought he continued to murmur, ‘In the light of burning palaces, the arrogant soldiers of Darva, drunk with victory, will put their hands on you, and I, chained and fettered, will look on, helpless. But rather than such a moment should come, I shall have lost my life by the enemy’s sword, or shall have killed myself with my own hand. To imagine that such a thing can happen to you even after my death is a thought I cannot bear.’

Prithusen was interrupted in his thoughts by the sound of Divya’s sobs. He put his arm around her and pressed her tightly to his chest. He kissed her on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, and then, holding her face between his hands, said reassuringly, ‘What do we gain by fear and panic, anyhow? It is far better that we live to the fullest, the moments of life that are given to us and then put an end to it with courage.’

In his effort to console Divya, he himself began to seek comfort in her lithe body. Her arms became limp and he gathered her waist more closely in his embrace. Her breasts swelled in her bodice, as if to comfort his pounding heart. His chin rested on Divya’s head. The intoxicating fragrance of Divya’s hair was driving him wild. The terrifying flames of destruction and war receded farther and farther from his eyes, as the wick of a lamp grows dimmer and dimmer when the oil runs out.

Prithusen’s eager soul, seeking fulfilment, yearned for her lips, and finding them, clung on in ecstasy. His unruly hands in search of her throbbing heart became restless on her bodice.

Divya trembled and shrank away from him. Torn between the pleasure of surrender and the instinct for self-protection, she held Prithusen’s hand in hers. Prithusen heaved a deep sigh and restraining himself, bit into his lower lip. The terrifying spectre of war which, for a moment had disappeared from his eyes, returned once more. He swallowed hard to cleanse his mouth of the bitterness born out of frustration. Resting lightly one of his hands on Divya’s shoulder and the other on her waist, and turning his eyes once again towards the reflection of the stars in the pond, he said, ‘I am not afraid of death, Divya … what is death? The end of one’s being. He who has no being, who is devoid of feeling, cannot feel fear either. If I am afraid, it is of being alive to bear the pain of subjugation, the lifelong agony of subjugation. To have you in my arms and then die will satisfy my desires. Then what is there to be afraid of? That will be a happy end to a happy existence. I cannot bear the thought of being conquered and overpowered in war, and then to die a slow death. The fulfilment of life lies in power and affluence. For these people, war is only an opportunity to carry out a treacherous conspiracy. They look upon one another as enemies but regard their real enemy as a potential friend and accomplice. Mourning the death of his son, the Commander-in-Chief has become a recluse from the world, and wants to follow in the footsteps of King Milinda. For hours he listens to the discourses of savant Dharma Rakshit about the joyful path of Nirvana and draws comfort from them. The Chairman of the Council will gladly see Madra in ruins, if thereby, like his predecessors, he can obtain some position of power under Kendras. The life of the entire population of the Republic is dependent on the selfish intrigues of these people, whose petty interests are dearer to them than the lives of millions of people,’ Prithusen went on, his eyes still resting on the starlit water in the pond.