I could not speak a word of the Indian dialects,
still less of English, and I knew no one save the crew of the vessel I
had come in, as poor as I, but saved from starvation by the slender
pittance allowed them on land. I wandered about all day through the
bazaars, occasionally speaking to some solemn looking old shopkeeper or
long-bearded Mussulman, who, I hoped, might understand a little Arabic.
But not one did I find. At evening I bathed in the tank of a temple full
from the recent rains, and I lay down supperless to sleep on the steps
of the great mosque. As I lay on the hard stones I looked up to my star,
and took comfort, and slept. That night a dream came to me. I thought I
was still awake and lying on the steps, watching the wondrous ruler of
my fate. And as I looked he glided down from his starry throne with an
easy swinging motion, like a soap-bubble settling to the earth. And the
star came and poised among the branches of the palm-tree over the tank,
opalescent, unearthly, heart shaking. His face was as the face of the
prophet, whose name be blessed, and his limbs were as the limbs of the
Hameshaspenthas of old. Garments he had none, being of heavenly birth,
but he was clothed with light as with a garment, and the crest of his
silver hair was to him a crown of glory.
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