Barlow
shuddered. Why contemplate the matter at all--it was impossible. Nana
Sahib had named the barrier when he had spoken of _varna_, meaning
colour, as _caste_, a shirt-of-mail that protected from disaster.
Sometimes as he dropped back past the _tonga_, the face of Bootea would
appear beneath the lifted curtain, and though on the lips would be a
sweet ravishing smile, the eyes were pathetic, full of heart hunger.
Sometimes he vowed that he would put off the parting--dream on; carry
her on to her people at Chunda. Then he would realise that this was
cowardice, a desire flooding his sense of nobility into a chasm of
possible disaster; not fair to the girl; the animal mastery of male
over female, the domination of sex. Beyond doubt, wrapped in his arms,
not even the omnipotence of the gods would take her away from him. If
there were less innate nobility in his avatar, if he were like men that
were called red-blooded men, yet lacking the finer sensibility, this
might be; not a villainous rush, just drifting. That was it, the
superlative excellence of the Gulab; the very quality that attracted,
was the shield, the immaculate robe that clothed her and preserved her
like a vestal virgin from such violation.
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