Thither I betook myself.

In the shade of the temple built there to the sage Kapila, in a union of prayers with the disciples whom the sanctified memory of the holy man keeps around his house, I thought to find rest.

But twice every year came pilgrimages of Hindoos seeking the purification of the waters.

Their misery strengthened my love.

Against its impulse to speak I clenched my jaws; for one word against Brahm or the Triad or the Shastras would doom me; one act of kindness to the outcast Brahmans who now and then dragged themselves to die on the burning sands--a blessing said, a cup of water given--and I became one of them, lost to family, country, privileges, caste.