From Short Story, "The Victory"
Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings
of love's flute startled for the first time the hushed air of the
Vrinda forest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player
or whence came the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart
of the south wind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the
hilltops. It came with a message of tryst from the land of the sunrise,
and it floated from the verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow.
The stars seemed to be the stops of the instrument that flooded
the dreams of the night with melody. The music seemed to burst all
at once from all sides, from fields and groves, from the shady lanes
and lonely roads, from the melting blue of the sky, from the shimmering
green of the grass. They neither knew its meaning nor could they
find words to give utterance to the desire of their hearts. Tears
filled their eyes, and their life seemed to long for a death that
would be its consummation.
Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with
a rival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled and quivered
round him like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the
Flute. He had in his mind the vision of an image that had taken
its shape from a shadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling sound
of a distant footstep.
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