Was she to blame for my
wild hope that in the end she would relent and step down to the
household levels of love?
She sat by the window - the last time I should see the moonlit
banks and her clear face against them. I made and won my fight
for the courage of words.
"And now I've finished everything - thank goodness! and we can
talk. Vanna - you will write to me?"
"Once. I promise that."
"Only once? Why? I counted on your words."
"I want to speak to you of something else now. I want to tell you
a memory. But look first at the pale light behind the
Takht-i-Suliman."
So I had seen it with her. So I should not see it again. We
watched until a line of silver sparkled on the black water, and
then she spoke again.
"Stephen, do you remember in the ruined monastery near Peshawar,
how I told you of the young Abbot, who came down to Peshawar with
a Chinese pilgrim? And he never returned."
"I remember. There was a Dancer."
"There was a Dancer. She was Lilavanti, and she was brought there
to trap him but when she saw him she loved him, and that was his
ruin and hers.
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