Believing the words of Acharya, Hemchandra had deemed Mrinalini to be of bad character; without even reading her letter, he had torn it to pieces, and had been ready to strike her messenger with a whip. Yet, it is not to say that he did not love Mrinalini. For her sake, he had renounced his kingdom and become a resident of Mathura. For this same Mrinalini, he had been ready to draw his bow against his own guru; for her, he had forgotten his vows in Gauda and stooped to flatter a beggar woman. And now? Now Hemchandra, pointing to the stake, had said to Madhavacharya, “I will impale Mrinalini upon this very stake!” Yet— Was his affection now utterly destroyed, then? Can affection be destroyed in a single day? For many days, the mountain stream carves its path through the heart of the earth, meandering along its chosen course—does the river dry up in a single day’s sunlight? The path that water has carved, water will follow; block that path, and the earth itself will be inundated. That night, Hemchandra lay upon his bed in his own chamber, resting his head near the open window, gazing out through its frame—was he beholding the beauty of the night? Had anyone asked him then whether the night was radiant with moonlight or shrouded in darkness, he could not have answered at once. He saw only the night that had risen within his own heart. Yet the night outside was still bright with moonlight! Otherwise, why was his pillow damp? Only clouds had gathered. He who harbors darkness in the sky of his heart does not weep.

He who has never wept is the lowest among men. Never trust such a one. Be certain, he has never tasted the joys of this world—nor can he bear the happiness of others. It may be that some self-conquering great soul endures the gravest torments without shedding a single tear, and such men do exist; but if, in some rare moment, he has never once moistened the earth with a single drop of his tears, then though he may be a master of his own heart, I would rather befriend a thief than him.

Hemchandra was weeping—for her whom he had deemed sinful, unworthy even of a place in his thoughts, he was weeping. Was he pondering Mrinalini’s faults? He was, indeed, but not that alone. Again and again, he recalled Mrinalini’s love-filled face, her loving words, her loving deeds. Was that Mrinalini truly faithless? Once, in Mathura, Hemchandra had been eager to send a letter to Mrinalini... He had tried, but found no suitable messenger; yet he saw Mrinalini through the lattice. Then Hemchandra wrote the necessary words upon a mango and, aiming for Mrinalini’s lap, sent it through the window. As Mrinalini stepped forward a little to catch the mango, it missed her lap and struck her ear; at once, with that blow, the jeweled earring hanging from her ear was torn off, and blood streamed down Mrinalini’s neck. Mrinalini did not even frown; she did not touch her ear; smiling, she picked up the mango, read the message, and immediately wrote a reply on its skin and sent the mango back. As long as Hemchandra remained within sight, she stayed at the window, smiling and watching him. Hemchandra remembered this. Could that Mrinalini be unfaithful? It was not possible.

Once, a scorpion had stung Mrinalini. The pain made her writhe as though at death’s door. One of her attendants knew an excellent remedy; its application would instantly cool the agony. The maid hurried to fetch the medicine. Meanwhile, Hemchandra’s messenger came and said that Hemchandra awaited her in the grove. The medicine would have arrived in a moment, but Mrinalini did not wait for it; at once, forgetting that pain worse than death, she went to the grove. The medicine was never used. Hemchandra remembered this too. Would that Mrinalini, for the sake of Vyomkesh, the disgrace of the Brahmin line, become unfaithful to Hemchandra? No, that could never be.

Another time, Hemchandra was traveling from Mathura to visit his guru; after traveling a prahar’s distance from Mathura, he fell ill. He lay down at a wayside inn; somehow, this news reached Mrinalini in the inner chambers. That very night, with only a nurse for company, Mrinalini traveled that full yojana on foot to see Hemchandra. When Mrinalini arrived at the inn, she was nearly lifeless from the exhaustion of the journey; her feet were wounded— Wounded—blood was flowing. That very night, out of fear of her father, Mrinalini returned home. Upon arriving, she herself fell ill. Hemchandra remembered even that. Would that Mrinalini abandon him for the vile Vyomkesh? Could she ever become faithless? He who believes such a thing is himself the unbeliever—he is the wretch, the fool.

Hemchandra had thought a hundred times, “Why did I not read Mrinalini’s letter? Why did I not learn why she had come to Navadwip?” He had once gone to the forest, hoping that if the fragments of the letter he had cast away could be found, he might piece them together and glean their meaning as far as possible. But in the darkness beneath the trees, he could see nothing. The wind had carried the scraps of writing away. Had he been able to recover those fragments by severing his own right arm, Hemchandra would have done so without hesitation.

Again he pondered, “Why would the Acharya speak falsely? The Acharya is a man of great truthfulness—he would never utter a lie. He loves me more than a son—he knows that this news would cause me pain worse than death; why would he torment me so with a falsehood? And he did not speak of his own accord. I drew the words from him with my own pride—only when I declared that I already knew everything did he speak. If he had wished to lie, why would he have been reluctant to