One of the drunkards suddenly noticed Prithusen and said, ‘Why are you so glum, friend? Are you stricken with fear? Marish says there is no truth in fear. Of whom are you afraid? Are you afraid of war? Go and become the slave of some noble! The officers of the state won’t even be able to touch you. Are you annoyed with your wife? Then go to the prostitute, Aloma. She’s smooth and sleek like an ivory statue. Aloma is not greedy. Come, friend, acquaintance in a drinking parlour is the beginning of friendship.’ He put his own bowl of wine to Prithusen’s lips. Prithusen pushed it away and quietly walked off into the darkness.

Even after he had gone some distance, Prithusen could hear the wailing of the old swordsmith.

The waiting attendant led Prithusen to his bedchamber. Ill at ease, he sat down on his high bed. Like moths that come fluttering round a flame, cares and worries came crowding into his mind—the menacing enemy advancing on Sagal, the all-pervading panic, the intrigues of the nobles, the dissatisfaction and indifference of the populace, the unconcern of the nobility—what would all this lead to? He remembered how Divya had grown limp in his arms and had abandoned herself, and then suddenly trembling all over, had begun to resist. She had been so loving, then why did she reject him? Would they be allowed to marry each other? What will happen before that, under Kendras’s invasion? Should he go away from Sagal? Marish was right, after all. Who will stand up to Kendras? How would any resistance be possible without the support of the people? Resting his chin on the palm of his hand, he remained sitting, lost in thought, unmindful of the soft pillows. He was unaware of the slave-girl standing behind him, fanning him softly to drive away the mosquitoes that had appeared with the stifling air of the rainy season.

‘Arya!’

Prithusen raised his eyes. Another slave-girl, Vapa by name, stood before him.

‘The master has enquired after your health. He hopes that you are well and in good cheer,’ said the slave-girl.

‘Convey my salutations to my father. I am in good health.’ Then, lying down on his bed, he said, ‘I don’t need the light.’

Of the five earthen lamps burning with scented oil, the slave-girl extinguished four. Only one was left burning and its light fell only on the carpet below. Seeing him motionless, Vapa went away. The other slave-girl softly stepped to one side, so as not to be seen by Prithusen, and continued to fan him.

Prithusen turned from side to side, put his arm under his head, now in one posture, then in another, but could not sleep. A long time passed. Through the door and casements came strong gusts of wind, followed by the sound of pattering rain. The air became cool and laden with moisture. The slave-girl put down the fan and stood motionless. A little later she picked up the silken sheet lying on a stool by the bed and covered Prithusen with it. Rain and cool air brought some relief to his troubled mind. He tossed aside the covering and turned on his side. After a few seconds, he pulled up the sheet again over his body.