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 Bimala fanned the guard a little with her sheet, and then without the least let or hinderance wore it over her body. The guard could not think of re-binding her, and there was indeed a particular reason for this. When instead of serving as a cord, the sheet graced Bimala's person, her charms began to burn the brighter—those charms at sight of which in the glass, Bimala had smiled in the morning, struck the guard dumb.

"Shaikhji," said she, "dosn't your wife love you?"

"Why should you think so?" asked the Shaikhji.

"Only if she did," said Bimala, "how could she in such a spring time (then the dog-star was raging, about to usher in the wet season!) endure the absence of such a husband?"

A deep sigh was the answer!

The arrows were flying out incessantly from Bimala's quiver.

"Shaikhji, I feel shame to confess it, but were you my husband, I would never suffer you to go to war."

The sentinel again sighed. Bimala went on,

"O that you were my husband!" and here she too fetched a little sigh, at the same time casting a side-glance full of love. The sentinel was wrought up beyond bearing. By degrees, he drew nearer and nearer to Bimala, who imitated him. Their bodies now came into actual contact; the guard was all excitement!

Bimala placed her silken-soft hand in that of the sentinel; the man was ravished!

"I am ashamed to speak thus," said Bimala, "but if you go away victorious, will you remember me any more?"

Guard. "Shall I ever forget you?"

Bimala. "Shall I open to you my heart?"