In the afternoon, Madhavacharya returned. He brought news that the religious authority had declared—the Yavana army has indeed arrived, but hearing rumors of rebellion in their previously conquered lands, the Yavana general is now inclined toward peace. Tomorrow, they will send an envoy. Until the envoy arrives, no preparations for war are being made. This After delivering the news, Madhavacharya said, “This wretched king will be ruined by the counsel of that usurper of religion.”

It was doubtful whether these words reached Hemchandra’s ears. Seeing him so distraught, Madhavacharya took his leave.

At dusk, Manoroma entered Hemchandra’s house. Seeing Hemchandra, she said, “Brother! Why are you like this today?”

Hemchandra: Like what?

Manoroma: Your face is as dark as the monsoon sky; filled with anger like the Ganges in the month of Bhadra. Why do you frown so? Why do your eyes not blink—wait, let me see—yes, there are tears in your eyes; have you been crying?

Hemchandra looked at Manoroma’s face; then lowered his gaze; then again looked up towards the high window; then once more fixed his eyes upon Manoroma’s face. Manoroma understood that the movement of his gaze had no purpose. When words rise to the lips but cannot be spoken, the eyes behave thus. Manoroma said, “Hemchandra, why are you so troubled? What has happened?”

Hemchandra replied, “Nothing.”

At first, Manoroma said nothing—then, of her own accord, she began to speak softly, “Nothing—you will not tell me! Shame! Shame! Will you nurture a serpent in your breast?” As she spoke, a single tear rolled from Manoroma’s eye;—then, suddenly looking at Hemchandra’s face, she said, “Why will you not tell me? Am I not your sister?”

In the expression of Manoroma’s face, in her calm gaze, there was such care, such gentleness, such sympathy, that Hemchandra’s heart melted. He said, “The pain I bear is not to be spoken of to a sister.”

Manoroma said, “Then I am not your sister.”

Hemchandra did not reply at all. Yet, full of hope, Manoroma kept her eyes fixed on his face. She said, “I am nothing to you.” Hem: My sorrow, sister, is unspeakable—not only to you, but to all others as well.

Hemchandra’s voice was filled with compassion, deeply imbued with personal anguish; its resonance struck deep within Manoroma’s soul. At that very moment, his tone changed, sparks of fire leapt from his eyes—biting his lip, Hemchandra said, “What is my sorrow? It is nothing at all. Mistaking a gem, I clasped a deadly serpent to my neck; now I have cast it away.”

Once again, Manoroma gazed at Hemchandra with unwavering eyes. Gradually, an exceedingly sweet, deeply sorrowful smile appeared on her face. The maiden grew bold. As if crowned with a radiance brighter than the sun’s own rays, the goddess of inspiration herself seemed to appear.

Manoroma said, “I understand. You loved without understanding, and now you suffer the consequences.”

Hem: I loved.

Hemchandra used the past tense instead of the present. Instantly, silent tears welled