One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel
containing fire, and said : "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire!
Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life
were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is
a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of
ashes."

The night wore on. Shekhar opened wide his windows. He spread upon his
bed the white flowers that he loved, the jasmines, tuberoses and
chrysanthemums, and brought into his bedroom all the lamps he had in his
house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the juice of some
poisonous root he drank it and lay down on his bed.

Golden anklets tinkled in the passage outside the door, and a subtle
perfume came into the room with the breeze.

The poet, with his eyes shut, said; "My lady, have you taken pity upon
your servant at last and come to see him ?"

The answer came in a sweet voice "My poet, I have come."

Shekhar opened his eyes--and saw before his bed the figure of a woman.

His sight was dim and blurred. And it seemed to him that the image made
of a shadow that he had ever kept throned in the secret shrine of his
heart had come into the outer world in his last moment to gaze upon his
face.

The woman said; "I am the Princess Ajita."