The heroes whose figures peopled his imagination were too heroic, the
villains too evil, and both heroes and villains were either physically
beautiful or hideous, according to their characters.
He had no comrade against whose practical experience he might have rubbed
this distorted picture into a more truthful likeness. His only companions
had been his native instructors and the priests--men separated from him by
a gulf of years and a curious lack of sympathy which he had in vain
striven to overcome. Thus he had been intensely lonely, more lonely than
he knew, though some dawning realization crept over him on this particular
evening as he passed through the temple gates. For a moment he stood with
his hands crossed over his breast, absorbed in prayer to Brahma, the
Creator, in whose presence he was about to stand. In such an hour, amidst
the absolute stillness, under the stupendous shadows of the walls, which
had, unchanging, seen generation after generation of worshipers drift from
their altars into the deeper shades of Patala, the young prince felt the
wings of divine spirits brush close past him, bearing his prayer on unseen
hands to the very ear of the golden-faced Trinity who, from his earliest
years, had seemed to look down upon him with solemn kindness.
This evening, more perhaps than ever before, every fiber in him vibrated
beneath the touch of the holy charm, and the prayer which passed
soundlessly over his lips came from a soul that worshiped in fiery
earnestness and truth.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52