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,