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CHAPTER 2 Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

This chapter begins with the learning outcome summaries, followed by a set of lesson plans for you to use
to deliver the content in Chapter 2. Lecture (for large sections) on page 4
• Company Clips (video) on page 5
• Group Work (for smaller sections) on page 8
Review and Assignments begin on page 9

Review questions

Application questions

Application exercise

Ethics exercise

Video assignment

Case assignment
Great Ideas for Teaching Marketing from faculty around the country begin on page 20

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage1
LEARNING OUTCOMES

2-1 Understand the importance of strategic planning

Strategic planning is the basis for all marketing strategies and decisions. These decisions affect the allocation of
resources and ultimately the financial success of the company.

1 2
- Define strategic business units (SBUs)
Each SBU should have these characteristics: a distinct mission and a specific target market; control over resources;
its own competitors; a single business; plans independent from other SBUs in the organization. Each SBU has its
own rate of return on investment, growth potential, and associated risks, and requires its own strategies and funding.

3
-3 Identify strategic alternatives and know a basic outline for a marketing plan
Ansoff’s opportunity matrix presents four options to help management develop strategic alternatives: market
penetration, market development, product development, and diversification. In selecting a strategic alternative,
managers may use a portfolio matrix, which classifies strategic business units as stars, cash cows, problem children
(or question marks), and dogs, depending on their present or projected growth and market share. Alternatively, the
GE model suggests that companies determine strategic alternatives based on the comparisons between business
position and market attractiveness. A marketing plan should define the business mission, perform a situation
analysis, define objectives, delineate a target market, and establish components of the marketing mix. Other
elements that may be included in a plan are budgets, implementation timetables, required marketing research efforts,
or elements of advanced strategic planning.

1
-5 Describe the components of a situation analysis
In the situation (or SWOT) analysis, the firm should identify its internal strengths (S) and weaknesses (W) and also
examine external opportunities (O) and threats (T). When examining external opportunities and threats, marketing
managers must analyze aspects of the marketing environment in a process called environmental scanning. The six
macroenvironmental forces studied most often are social, demographic, economic, technological, political and legal,
and competitive.

2
-6 Identify sources of competitive advantage
There are three types of competitive advantage: cost, product/service differentiation, and niche. Sources of cost
competitive advantage include experience curves, efficient labor, no frills goods and services, government subsidies,
product design, reengineering, production innovations, and new methods of service delivery. A product/service
differentiation competitive advantage exists when a firm provides something unique that is valuable to buyers beyond
just low price. Niche competitive advantages come from targeting unique segments with specific needs and wants.
The goal of all these sources of competitive advantage is to be sustainable.

3
-7 Explain the criteria for stating good marketing objectives
Objectives should be realistic, measurable, time specific, and compared to a benchmark. They must also be consistent
and indicate the priorities of the organization. Good marketing objectives communicate marketing management
philosophies, provide management direction, motivate employees, force executives to think clearly, and form a basis
for control.

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage2
1
-4 Develop an appropriate business mission statement
The firm’s mission statement establishes boundaries for all subsequent decisions, objectives, and strategies. A
mission statement should focus on the market(s) the organization is attempting to serve rather than on the good or
service offered.

2
these market segments is performed. After the market segments are described, one or more may be targeted by the
firm.

2-9 Describe the elements of the marketing mix

The marketing mix is a blend of product, place, promotion, and pricing strategies (the four Ps) designed to produce
mutually satisfying exchanges with a target market. The starting point of the marketing mix is the product
offering— tangible goods, ideas, or services. Place (distribution) strategies are concerned with making products
available when and where customers want them. Promotion includes advertising, public relations, sales promotion,
and personal selling. Price is what a buyer must give up in order to obtain a product and is often the most flexible of
the four marketing mix elements.

1
-8 Discuss target market strategies

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage3
Targeting markets begins with a market opportunity analysis, or MOA, which describes and estimates the size and
sales potential of market segments that are of interest to the firm. In addition, an assessment of key competitors in

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage4
2-10 Explain why implementation, evaluation, and control of the marketing plan are necessary
Before a marketing plan can work, it must be implemented—that is, people must perform the actions in the plan. The
plan should also be evaluated to see if it has achieved its objectives. Poor implementation can be a major factor in a
plan’s failure, but working to gain acceptance can be accomplished with task forces. Once implemented, one major
aspect of control is the marketing audit, and ultimately continuing to apply what the audit uncovered through postaudit
tasks.

2-11 Identify several techniques that help make strategic planning effective
First, management must realize that strategic planning is an ongoing process and not a once-a-year exercise. Second,
good strategic planning involves a high level of creativity. The last requirement is top management’s support and
participation.

TERMS

cash cow market development niche competitive advantage

competitive advantage market opportunity analysis (MOA) planning
control market penetration portfolio matrix
cost competitive advantage marketing audit problem child (question mark)
diversification marketing mix (four Ps) product development
dog marketing myopia product/service differentiation
environmental scanning marketing objective competitive advantage
evaluation marketing plan star
experience curves marketing planning strategic business unit (SBU)
implementation marketing strategy strategic planning
mission statement sustainable competitive advantage
SWOT analysis

LESSON PLAN FOR LECTURE

Brief Outline and Suggested PowerPoint Slides:

Learning Outcomes and Topics PowerPoint Slides

LO1 Understand the importance of strategic planning 1: Strategic Planning for Competitive
2: Advantage
2-1 The Nature of Strategic Planning 3: Learning Outcomes
Learning Outcomes
4: Learning Outcomes
5: The Nature of Strategic Planning

6: Strategic Planning is…

LO2 Define strategic business units (SBUs) 7: 8: Strategic Business Units
Characteristics of Strategic Business Units
2-2 Strategic Business Units (SBUs)
LO3 Identify strategic alternatives and know a basic outline 9: Strategic Alternatives
for a marketing plan 10: Ansoff’s Opportunity Matrix
11: Exhibit 2.1: Ansoff’s Opportunity Matrix

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage

Chapter 2 ♦ Strategic Planning for Competitive Advantage5
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
 To Oman, the sensation of riding was novel enough, and far from
unpleasant. Everything—the sweet, early morning air, the silvery mist on
the plain, the rushing river-song, the rolling hills in the distance, and the
grave-eyed, silent man beside him, all worked themselves into his mood,
deepening the impression of the hour. By nine o’clock the little temple
was in sight. When it first appeared, a dim, bluish blot in the flat
distance, the heart of Oman rose within him. His face grew very white.
On his breast the Asra ruby burned, and the light of it, shining blood-red
in the sunlight, or the fact that he had gazed too long at the temple, or
perhaps some still more natural cause, made him suddenly dizzy and
faint. In the whirl of his feeling, he looked toward Bhavani beside him.
The Rajah sat stiffly in his saddle, his yellow turban throwing into pale
relief his stern, set face and deeply glowing eyes. He gazed unwinkingly
forward, and Oman’s look followed his.
Directly in front of them it lay now,—a small, square building of
grayish white stone cut in heavy blocks. The top of the structure was flat
and square, but from the middle of it rose a conical, pagoda-like dome,
also of stone:—to the Indian eye a sufficiently symmetrical finish to the
whole. The entire building was ornamented with innumerable bas-reliefs,
flutings, and carvings, crude enough in themselves, but, taken in the
mass, giving an effect of considerable richness. Neither wing, veranda,
nor jut marred the straight lines of the side walls; and for this, the temple
was probably unique in the jumbling architecture of its period. As it
stood here, silent, deserted, on the edge of the wild-rushing stream,
surrounded by shadowy plain and backed by high-reaching hills, it gave
an impression of loneliness that no momentary spectacle of trooping
horses and men could shake off.
It was some time before ten o’clock when the procession halted and
dismounted at its destination. There was a pause, while the priests
opened the long-locked doors and kindled a fire inside, before the small,
stone image of the god. Then, Bhavani leading the way, with Oman close
behind him, the throng passed into the stone-lined chamber. Oman
entered with closed eyes. There was an oppression on him that would not
be shaken off. He shook and shivered in the chill of the little place.
When he finally looked about him, the chant of prayers had begun, and
he was surrounded by silent, motionless men. There were no windows,
and little light entered through the doorway, which was occupied by
villagers who strove to hear something of the service. The audience,
therefore, could see only by means of the flickering firelight. Everything
—roof, walls, floor, and the image of the god, were of the same grayish-
white stone, polished, but not carved. In the centre of the floor, however,
close to where Oman stood, was the marble tomb that had been built
over the ashes of the two whom they came to mourn. The whole of this
sarcophagus was covered with inscriptions and carvings gracefully
arranged. And this was all that the temple held. A single glance was
enough to take it in. Oman saw it so; and then he stood listening dully to
the meaningless words of the chant, while the ruby burned upon his
breast, and his brain throbbed with the pain of memory.
When the prayers were finished, every one left the temple and went
out into the open, where a meal was to be served. But, while priests and
people ate, in separate groups, Oman and Bhavani, who were of one
mind, returned to the building, and silently reëntered it. Advancing to the
sarcophagus, they paused, one on either side of it, Oman resting both
hands on the chilly marble. The eyes of the two met, and each found in
the other’s look what lay in his own:—bitterness and sadness. When they
had stood there for a long time, each wrapped in his own thoughts,
Bhavani murmured, quietly, as if to himself:
“I loved them—both. Ahalya, thou beautiful one,—lying here,—what
hath been thy Fate in death?”
The last words were barely audible; for it required courage to break
the silence of that room. The stillness of it seemed almost supernatural. It
was scarcely broken by the faint fluttering of a winged creature that
skimmed in through the half-open doorway. Oman looked up and
perceived a slender, gray bird, of peculiar shape, hovering under the roof
above his head. It was his companion, he knew at once. Bhavani seemed
not to have noticed the intrusion; and Oman did not mention it. But the
scene was suddenly complete for him. He felt comforted. And he
realized also that here, some day, he should himself yield up his
imprisoned souls, and in this silent place enter upon his well-earned rest.
Looking into Bhavani’s eyes, he said, quietly:
“Lord Rajah, let thy father’s ashes be some day laid within this room.
Many years have passed since these two committed their sin against him.
To their troubled souls it would be forgiveness should he, whom they so
wronged in life, come to them in death, and lie beside them, peacefully.”
So gently did Oman say this, and with such conviction, that Bhavani
could not be shocked by the idea. After a long, thoughtful silence, he
only observed: “Thinkest thou so, indeed?” And then he relapsed again
into thought. Shortly afterward, without further speech between them,
they passed out of the tomb, closing the door behind them.
A little later the company rode away from the lonely place, their faces
turned toward Mandu. It was a quieter journey than that of the morning;
for the service in the temple-tomb had not failed to make its impression
on the most careless. Oman and Bhavani were again side by side, still
silent and thoughtful, gazing into the cloudy east. When at last they left
the river and struck across the plain, Bhavani, leaning toward his
companion, said, in a muffled voice:
“Thou hast spoken of peace to the twain were my father laid beside
them there by the river. Why, rather, should not their ashes be carried up
into Mandu, and placed in the palace temple, where their Rajah lies?”
Oman hesitated for a moment, stroking his horse’s mane. Then he
answered, dreamily: “That is their place there, by the river. It is a
peaceful sleep. They would not rest well near the palace of their
treachery.”
Bhavani bowed his head, and seemed as if about to reply; but he
closed his lips again without having uttered any word.
Thus ended Oman’s first visit to the tomb: an incident that brought
much into his life. It proved the beginning of intangible things that
carried changes in their train. There was at first a new relaxation of
mind; for it seemed as if some final touch had been put upon his own
existence. Less than ten miles away was his own resting-place, waiting
his coming. He knew this intuitively; and it seemed to him that, however
long he should still live, there could be no further pilgrimage for him.
His life at Mandu was not for a mere Vassa season. He had attained his
Arahatship; and need not any longer dread the privation months each
year.
During the following summer Oman went twice, alone, to the tomb;
each time spending the night there and returning, next day, on foot. What
he did in those times, or why he went, no one knew. But he had been
given a key to the temple doors, and men might see, if they wished, that
he carried it always in his girdle. Zenaide once ventured to ask him of
the purpose of his journeys, and he smiled, and answered her:
“I go there to pray to the great Brahma for two erring souls.”
“The souls of the Ranee and the slave who were drowned together?”
 Oman bent his head.
“And dost thou not think, O Oman, that for such sinful ones there
must be hundreds of reincarnations to expiate their crimes?”
“Was there happiness enough in their sin to repay a thousand years of
suffering?” he asked, bitterly. “Nay, woman, I tell thee that thirty years
of sorrow and struggle hath more than paid—more than paid! There is a
strict justice over all things. The Divine Soul alone knows the real
measure of happiness and misery meted out to each of us. He also knows
in how much the crime carries with it its punishment.”
“Thou art a strange man, Oman,” she answered, looking at him
curiously. “Sometimes I could think thee mad if thou wast not so—so
assured. Whence come these thoughts of thine? Art thou inspired?”
“Nay, Zenaide. Knowledge must come to all who, by bitterness and
tears, have drawn near the infinite. Suffering brings much beauty to the
soul. I begin to think that men shun it too much.” And then Oman
smiled, and went away, fearing lest he had spoken too plainly to one
who, through her nature, might understand.
Much to Oman’s surprise, and to the amazement and consternation of
the whole plateau, Bhavani, after six months of deliberation, acted upon
the impulsive suggestion made by Oman, in the river temple on the
anniversary of the death of Ahalya and Fidá. In the autumn of that year
the ashes of Rai-Khizar-Pál were removed from their tomb in the palace,
and borne down the river to a new grave. The act came very near to
causing a general uprising. Bhavani’s own son pleaded with his father on
his knees not to dishonor the great warrior, his grandfather, and thus
bring infamy upon himself and the whole line. It was in vain. Oman’s
secret idea had taken root in Bhavani’s heart; and a revolution would not
have turned him from his object. In the month of October, just before the
rains, Rai-Khizar’s ashes were laid beside those of his dead wife, in a
new marble tomb, the magnificence of which a little consoled the people
for the disrespect to their warrior king.
It was Oman who was charged with the matter of the reinterment; and,
when the priests had finished their service after the burial, he went down
to the river bank, and at the risk of his life began to talk to the angry mob
that waited there. It was a dramatic scene. In the beginning his voice was
completely drowned by the roars and cries that rose from the usually
passive and obedient people. Probably only the presence of Bhavani
saved the hermit, as he was called, from personal violence. But Oman
held doggedly to his place; and, after a time his very appearance, as he
stood upon a block of stone twenty yards from the temple, silenced the
noise, and brought the people, against their will, to listen to him. As he
began to speak, his voice was like the melodious ripple of a summer
stream. He talked of wrong-doing and the forgiveness of sin; and the
doctrine that he preached had never been heard in the east at all. One
long before, in the west, had spoken such words; but they had not lived
truly in the hearts of men. Before Oman paused, however, he had
brought all the throng literally to his feet, because of the things he said
and the way he said them. And, in that hour, Oman won his place with
the low castes of Mandu, among whom, henceforth, he was privileged to
much that their priests could not obtain of them.
By this unpremeditated act, Oman made possible for himself
something that he had desired long and earnestly. It opened the way for
him to go down among the humbler people, and cause them to reveal
their souls to him, that he might give them his truths. In the next months
he studied, ardently, the nature of mankind, in the hope of finding means
of escape from temptation for those too weak to resist it, and of giving
proper strength to those who could still struggle against themselves. But,
even while he labored, a new discouragement came upon him. He
succeeded only too well in probing the natures of those who sought his
help. To him, whose severe and troubled life had been exempt from the
complicated wrong of living, the constant discoveries made to him of
selfishness, pettiness, deceit, of warped and perverted notions of right
and wrong, thrown before him in all the chaotic tangle of actual
existence, brought revelations that overpowered him with their
barefacedness. All alone he wrestled with problems that have neither
beginning nor end; where, from the first, all has been so wrong that there
is no hope of setting it right. He saw almost as the Almighty must see:—
the terrible falsity of each individual; and, the reason for it, the reason for
the fact of existence, being withheld from him, he fainted under the
burden of seemingly irreparable wrong. It was no joy to him to reflect
that, compared with most men, he had lived the life of a saint. Oblivious
of himself since his victory was won, he tried to take up the battle for
others too ill-equipped for resistance. And thus, after all, Oman showed
himself not very wise; for he had not learned that, by the first law of
creation, man works out his destiny alone. But this new problem proved
to be also his last turning-point. He had ceased to live for himself.
Henceforth all his desire was for others. It is the last lesson:—one that
men are not often trusted here to learn.
 CHAPTER XVI

“LA-ILAHA-IL-LAL-LAHA”
Ten years glided away. Oman was more than forty, and Bhavani about
fifty-five. To the worker among men the time had seemed longer than
that spent on the Silver Peak. There he had, after a little, won faith in
himself. Here he came gradually to perceive that he was accomplishing
nothing of that which he had set out to do. Little by little he was made to
realize that those who are wholly of the world can get no help out of the
great, abstract truths: the high standard of religion. This at last he
perceived. But he would stoop to no creed petty enough to catch the
belief of his people. It was, indeed, only what is discovered by all men
who seek to bring high truths home to narrow minds:—that the great,
polluted religions have, by slow process of retrograde development, been
constituted by the masses for the masses, who must thenceforth only be
left alone to peck over and over the heap of chaff from which the last
kernels of truth have been long since snatched away.
Fortunately, during this period of thankless labor, Oman had not lost
touch with a wider world. Bhavani and Zenaide, the man and the woman,
were still his refuge. To them he carried some of his weariness, and from
them got constant renewal and refreshment. Their lives had become
tranquil,—singularly so, indeed. Only Bhavani, as he grew older,
sometimes chafed at the thought that he alone, of all Manduvian rulers,
had been peaceful, had brought no glories of conquest and plunder home
to his people. He fretted lest Mandu’s prestige had been dimmed by his
policy; though he could not deny that he had trebled the strength of his
kingdom in wealth and in population.
“Ah,” he would sometimes say, “at my death the country will be fit for
Viradha’s rule. He will find her ready to give him soldiers and gold for
his wars. He will be what my father was. With all thy teachings, Oman,
thou hast never eradicated in him the warrior spirit.”
And Oman would shake his head, his eyes growing sad; for he was not
a lover of war.
This matter of the long-continued peace in Mandu was not wholly
owing to the policy of its present Rajah; for, during all the early part of
his reign, there had been quiet in the turbulent north. Now, however,
sinister rumors began to spread and grow. It was, indeed, a time of
universal disquiet; for this was the middle of the constructive period of
Indian history: the time of the fusion of two great races. Conquest had
begun two hundred years before, under the great lord of Ghazni. The
second conqueror, Mohammed Ghori, had been dead but forty years.
And, since then, the first line of slave kings, founded by Aybek, had been
broken by another slave:—Balban, the mighty minister of studious
Mahmoud. Under him began the first concerted campaigns into Gujerat
and Malwa, which were eventually to result in the conquest of
everything north of the Dekkhan. In Delhi, now the capital of Moslem
India, there dwelt more than one powerful general of the Prophet’s faith.
Among these, Osman-ibn-Omar, the Asra, had won high reputation for
the courage and daring that were, indeed, characteristic of his race. In his
youth he had known Lahore, even mountain-built Ghazni; and now, his
father long ago honorably dead in battle, the son, himself more than sixty
years old, dwelt in Delhi, yearning for new wars. And it was eventually
he, still bearing in mind an old, disastrous campaign of Dhár in the
Vindhyas, who now, in the year 1249, swore to his lord a mighty oath
that in him Malwa should find its conqueror. He would go down to the
south, and learn whether a cousin of his, whilom head of the Asra race,
were still, by any chance, alive and in captivity among the unconquered
natives. But of this matter the folk of Mandu, peacefully engaged in the
garnering of rice and millet, knew nothing, and as little cared.
Oman, perhaps, had some premonition of what was about to come. At
any rate, during this winter, his spirit was restless. He had recourse to
many long-abandoned methods of tranquillizing himself. He felt that he
was becoming world-troubled. The still waters of his nature had been
disturbed and set into motion by a too intimate knowledge of various
matters. And all his efforts after calm brought him but temporary relief.
Part of his trouble lay in the sad knowledge of Bhavani’s state. The
beloved of Mandu was afflicted with a mortal disease, slow in its fatal
progress, but so sure that no man knew of a single prayer, a single
sacrifice, that could prove efficacious. Zenaide and Oman, much
depending on each other, did not scruple to speak of the inevitable: the
shadow of death that hovered daily over them. Zenaide grew strong,
now. It was that strength of despair that upholds us at the last. Even
Oman, knowing, as he did, her inmost heart, marvelled sometimes at the
calm that possessed her. She was no longer young; but, unlike most of
her race and class, middle age had not made her ugly. She had lived too
well for that. Beauty of spirit, gathered during her years of painful youth,
the time of her sacrifice, brought its reward, clothing her with a dignity
and a serene beauty that mere happiness cannot give. Bhavani’s wife was
dead: had died as she had lived, among her embroideries and her
trivialities, regretting to the last the zenana life in which she had been
brought up. Bhavani, always reverent toward her in life, felt no acute
sorrow at her decease, and, after her burial, returned to his usual way of
life, affecting nothing. There were still those in Mandu who wondered if
he would not take to wife the woman to whom he had been far more
devoted than ever he was to the daughter of Dhár. But Bhavani never
entertained a thought of marrying her who had been the greatest
courtesan in Malwa. Nor did Zenaide herself regard marriage as a
possibility. Youth had passed both from her and from him who, all
unknown to her, had passionately loved her. The fire of youth, quenched
in its height, had found another life, had been transmuted into a deep and
holy affection that demanded no closer bond than that of friendship. If
the thought of marriage ever came to the woman, it was only with the
wish that, in the suffering he endured almost constantly, she might
comfort him as only women can. But Bhavani preferred to die as he had
lived: austerely and alone. If he was aware how closely his people
watched him, he gave no sign. Oman sometimes wondered if the Rajah
dreamed of the storm that his marriage with Zenaide would have raised
among the people. Only Oman, from his constant intercourse with the
lower classes, knew how blindly and how bitterly the woman of the
water-palace was still hated. But Oman himself, had the two chosen to
unite themselves, would have uttered not one word of remonstrance:—
would, indeed, have given his life in their defence. So had time changed
his earlier, rigid views.
It was in this year 1249 that Viradha-Pál, the young prince, began to
take his place in the government of Mandu as a person of importance.
Indeed it was time that he came into his own. Bhavani had kept him too
long in the background. Mandu was beginning to whisper that he should
have been at war for them these five years past: that it behoved a
Kshatriya to follow his profession. And Viradha, allowed liberty of
action, proved himself worthy of his people by quickly claiming his own.
Bhavani let him go; for he knew that the spirit of the old warrior kings
was upon the youth; and he knew also, still better, that the time
approached when a warrior would be sorely needed in Mandu. For
Bhavani, in his peacefulness, was by no means blind to the outlook of
India; and it was no surprise when Viradha came to him with tales of
Mohammedan invasions in the north, and demands of an army with
which to march against the alien race. Bhavani acceded to his demands,
making, however, one stipulation. Viradha must marry. Then he might
leave his wife and go forth to battle. Such was the rule in the Orient.
Thus it came about, after all, that there were marriage feasts that year
in Mandu. A princess was brought from Mandaleshwar, on the north
bank of the Narmáda, far to the east. And there was a great Brahman
sacrifice, and the usual three days of ceremonial. The deserted zenana
was opened once more, and a new woman installed there in her
loneliness. One week her husband tarried by her side. Then he took his
man’s privilege, and left her alone in her state, while he marched away at
the head of his little army—fifteen hundred men—into the echoing
north. The benedictions and the adoration of all Mandu followed him.
Old Bhavani had been a good ruler, the kindest, the most just of men.
But, after all, men were made for war, and it was better that the princes
of men should be generals than judges. Alas for Mandu! Rejoicing in its
newly raised standards, shouting itself hoarse with its own battle-cries,
deaf to presentiment, to rumor, to the prophecies of the gods, what
wonder that it heard nothing of that faintly-echoing cry that was ringing
out over all the plains and heights of India? The cry that had risen out of
the black Kaaba of far Mecca, and now rolled, in one continuous shout,
from western Granada to Benares, the holy city, transcending speech by
its sharp fanaticism, finding by force a home in every land: “La-ilaha-il-
lal-laha!” This was the cry that Viradha had gone forth to oppose. It was
the same cry to which Viradha’s grandfather had answered with his
death.
The young prince went away in the middle of the Ashtaka month
(December). His going made no change in Mandu, save that it gave the
people an added interest outside their monotonous lives. The pleasant
winter passed slowly away. Bhavani had begun to depend much on his
appointed teacher of men; and Oman left his unheeded labors among the
lowly in order to watch over his dearly loved lord. Bhavani was sad;
missed his son; suffered keenly, but did not complain. Oman himself
never suspected how much that royal soul endured, silently. But, as the
days passed, he became more and more aware of a changing aspect in
many things. There was in him a sense of foreboding, a feeling of
finality, indefinable, omnipresent. Zenaide also felt it, and her
melancholy became unconquerable. She knew what the outer senses
could not tell her; and even Oman’s quietly proffered sympathy was
repelled. Bhavani doubtless guessed all that passed in their minds; but he
could not take their burden from them. He knew himself to be too near
the end. He could only spare them anxiety by the silent endurance of
pain.
The end came sooner than even he, perhaps, had expected. It was in
February, about the middle of the month; and early thrills of spring hung
in the air. On the eighteenth day, at noon, Oman, who was in his own
room after a long morning in the school, was roused by Bhavani’s
favorite slave and conducted swiftly through the palace to Bhavani’s
bedroom. Bhavani was on his couch; and Oman, who had not seen him
since the previous evening, at once knew everything. The room was in
confusion. Evidently many people—doctors, priests, slaves—had been
there recently. Why they were now gone, Oman could not surmise.
Bhavani lay breathing in long, heavy gasps, with intervals of startling
length. His face wore the gray hue of death. His eyes were closed; but he
felt Oman’s entrance, for he put out his hand, and Oman took it and fell
upon his knees beside the bed.
“Let me summon help for thee,” he said, in a low, clear voice that
suggested nothing of what he felt.
“No,” gasped the dying one. Then, after an effort, he added: “I hear
Brahma’s voice. Shall I not—answer it?”
Oman could not speak. He buried his head near the face of his friend.
It seemed to him, at that moment, that Fate had found a cruelty too great
for passive endurance. For Oman loved this man as he had never hoped
to love in life. It was like tearing his heart in two to watch that inevitable,
resistless advance of death. Yet, with the heroism that was in him, he
accepted Bhavani’s own decree: feeling, indeed, that there was no human
help for his King.
Moments passed:—an hour:—and still Oman knelt by the bed.
Suddenly it seemed as if the Rajah’s breath was coming a little more
easily, a little less terribly. Quickly he lifted his head, and looked. There
was a change. Bhavani looked older, grayer, more shrunken. But his eyes
were half unclosed, and he seemed to be in less pain. While Oman gazed,
unable to speak, scarcely to think, a shadowy smile crossed the Rajah’s
lips, and he began to murmur a few unintelligible words. Oman bent to
catch them, and Bhavani’s eyes rested on his face.
 “Fidá,” he whispered, low, but distinctly: “we played together—with
Ahalya—”
“Yes. Yes!” answered Oman, hoarsely.
“Brave things. Let us play again. I always Arjuna. Thou, O Fidá,
Yudishthir, the King.—Ahalya, the beautiful Draupadi. I have won her
from all the rest. But now—we are marching away—from Hastinapur.
We are seeking heaven. It is a long journey. We reach the sea. Dost thou
remember all the places, Fidá? Agni stops us awhile; and then—we come
into the plain that leads to Himavan. I have read it many times. See,—
they are gone, all of them! Nakula and Bhima and Draupadi are dead in
the desert. But I go on alone into the hills—and—yes, this time he is
there!—Sakra—O God!—I come!—Behold, I come!”
Smiling, gasping out these words of one of his childhood’s games, that
was, in fact, an epic of the pilgrimage of life, Bhavani, holy among men,
slipped away out of existence, perhaps ascending in Sakra’s own chariot,
that had so often awaited him in his young imagination.
Till long after he knew that Bhavani was gone from him, Oman knelt
there, by the bed, gazing blindly on the still, waxen face. Presently he
became aware that there were others in the room. Slaves crept in and out,
and brought doctors and officials, and those who were to care for the
high dead. Then, dazed and bowed down with his weight of grief, Oman
rose and passed out, through the palace, between little knots of
whispering men who made way for him and looked after him, longing
but not daring to question. He left the palace behind and went on to the
duty that was his. The heart in him bled. There were no thoughts of help
or of comfort in his brain; yet he knew that none but him could tell the
woman of their common woe. So he turned toward the water-palace,
where he was always admitted without delay.
Zenaide was in the wide, central court of her dwelling, lying on a pile
of cushions placed beside the marble pool. In her hand she held a piece
of millet cake, which she had been crumbling for the fishes in the water.
At Oman’s entrance, however, she rose, and went to him, hastily. As she
looked into his face, Oman, without speaking, watched her expression
change from gayety to wonder, and so to fear, till he knew that there was
not much to put into words. Now she reached out both her hands, and
Oman took them into his own.
“Tell me,” she said, faintly.
 “Dost thou not know?” he asked, his voice seeming to him to come
from another world.
“Bhavani,—” she began; but her voice broke.
“There is no longer a Bhavani,” he answered, wondering at himself for
the speech.
She took it quietly, letting his hands drop from hers, and turning away
so that, for some seconds, he could not see her face. Then she moved
nearer him again, and said, in tones not natural, but still well controlled:
“Come, let us go into a smaller room.”
Oman assented in silence; and she led the way down a short passage to
that apartment in which they had held their first interview, many years
before. And there she caused him to sit down upon the broad divan,
while she took her place at his knee. Again, in their woe, their hands met.
And then Zenaide, bowing her head, let tears come. Oman could not
weep. His grief was deeper: far more terrible, indeed, than he had
believed it could be. His own great creed brought him no comfort.

Bhavani was entombed in the temple room of the palace, in the place
whence his father had been lately removed. The ceremonial of cremation
was magnificent; but there was one grave lack in it. No willing women
accompanied him into the flames. There were no blood relatives, no
children, to mourn at his bier. The spectators, who could remember his
father’s entombment, compared with this the wailing concourse which
had assembled about that funeral pyre, on which lay the body that had
been carried all the way back to Mandu from the disastrous plain of
Dhár. Here was no terrible grief of dying concubines and dust-covered
widows: no deep-throated sobbing of warrior sons. Two aliens, man and
woman, stood together, hand in hand, beside the frightened little bride of
Viradha; and these were all, beside the people, that mourned Bhavani’s
death. Truly, the royal line of Mandu was fading away! The long
ceremony brought to every heart a feeling of emptiness, of forlornity,
that was not easy to overcome. The people felt it, and even the
Brahmans; and there were those who covertly wondered if young
Viradha, returning home, would find his own awaiting him.
 Fortunately for himself, Oman had no time, in the next few weeks, to
grieve. Not knowing just how it came about, he found himself in the
position of regent, all Mandu having voluntarily demanded their
government of him. There being no other hand ready for the helm, he
accepted the place, constituting himself keeper of Viradha’s state,
guardian of his honor, treasurer of his heritage: holding himself ready at
any moment to deliver all these into the hands of the young King. He
clung closely to Bhavani’s methods, finding himself little at a loss to fill
a place the duties of which, from constant observation, he had learned so
well.
Thus a month passed away. Oman, occupied almost day and night,
saw little of Zenaide, whose burden of grief was hers to bear alone.
Oman, even in his sadness, had found consolation in an unexpected
effect of his labor of the past ten years. He perceived that what he had
hoped for against hope was true: the people loved him. Through his
years of work among them they had treated him ill. They had been deaf
to his teachings; they had mocked at his laws; they had reviled him for
heresy to their faith. He had come to believe that he had brought good to
not one soul. And now, suddenly, upon the accession of a little pomp,
they went to him, sought his counsel, obeyed and loved him more than
they had ever obeyed and loved even Bhavani. Oman took their devotion
for the best that it brought; and rejoiced that his way was made easy for
him. Now he longed only for the return of Viradha, which could not be
much further delayed. He had gone away in December. It was now the
end of March. Surely the thought of his young wife must draw the
warrior homeward soon. Nay, Oman had a presentiment that the course
of events would force him back.
Oman was right. Viradha did return, shortly. It was the last week in
March, and the spring was in its loveliest, early beauty. Was it right that
this renewal of youth, these ever-recurrent love-yearnings of nature,
should be broken by the harsh voices of war, an autumnal woe of blood
and death? Yet this came: so swiftly, so overwhelmingly, that there was
no time for consideration or planning. Only action was necessary; and
only action was taken.
The first premonition of disaster came upon the afternoon of the
second day of April, when two or three wounded and exhausted fugitives
reached the haven of Mandu, bringing the startling news that Viradha
and his little army were close at hand, in full retreat before a victorious
Mohammedan horde, who had pursued them clear across the mountains.
It was a thunderbolt; for none had ever dreamed that the plateau,
defended by the whole wide range of the Vindhyas, could be in danger
from the conquerors of Delhi. But the word of the fugitives had to be
accepted. Their plight was unquestionable. Within twenty-four hours
Viradha and his men would be in Mandu, where something, no man said
what, must happen.
Through the night, every soul on the plateau labored as never before.
Even the children were pressed into service; and Brahman and Sudra
worked side by side, placing barriers along the causeway, which, when
the Manduvians had reached the plateau, could be thrown across the
narrow bridge, and the invaders shut away. It was the only plan of
defence that occurred to Oman as feasible; and none of those that sat in
council with him could find a better. All was uncertain. They could only
busy themselves as best they could;—and wait.
The waiting was not long. Through the whole of the morning of the
third, fugitive soldiers continued to pour in from the mountains, bringing
word of the valiant, the desperate bravery of Viradha in his retreat, and
of the overwhelming force of the invaders. Oman sat in the great
audience hall, questioning every soldier that came in, ordering, thinking,
planning, till, about one o’clock in the afternoon, there came to his ears
the sounds of a great, confused clamor:—the distant battle-din that
proclaimed the arrival of the Rajah and his army.
Then, had any one been there to watch, he might have thought that the
Saint of Mandu had gone suddenly mad. A spirit of fury had, indeed,
rushed upon Oman. He ran out of the palace into the courtyard, where,
by his command, a horse was waiting for him. He sprang upon it. All the
man, all the one-time Asra bravery of Fidá, was seething in his blood,
beating in his brain. From a staring slave-boy he seized a shield and
spear, but waited for no armor. Clad in his accustomed white garments, a
white turban on his head, and, for his one ornament, the great ruby hung
about his neck, he started away, at full gallop, down the road toward the
causeway. As he advanced, the sounds grew nearer: the noise more
hideous. And above it all, from time to time, like a sentence of doom and
death, came the strange accents of that strangest of all battle-cries: “La-
ilaha-il-lal-laha!” which, twisted, means: “There is no God but God.”
 CHAPTER XVII
THE SIGN OF THE RUBY

The galloping horse, with its white rider, dashed round the curve in the
road that opened upon the great stone causeway; and Oman perceived
that he was none too soon. It was upon that narrow bridge that the long,
horrible retreat of the young Rajah of Mandu had reached its climax.
Here he made his last stand against the invincible Prophet-horde. The
scene on the causeway was indescribable. Oman had one moment’s
survey of it: one moment, during which all his strength, all the fury of
race and loyalty that were in him, rushed into his two arms, into his
brain, into his eyes. Then, without pause, he was carried down into the
writhing, struggling mass.
The plan of defence prepared over night for Viradha’s assistance had
come to naught. The two armies had fought their way, hand to hand, all
down the rocky defile that led to the plateau; and they reached the
causeway in an inseparable mass. It had taken the whole morning for the
Moslems to force the defenders from the entrance of the pass, two miles
above, to the bridge. The men of Mandu, knowing well the consequence
of defeat, had fought as never men fought before; and now, on the
threshold of their homes, they made the supreme effort. The retreat was
over. The fight on the causeway was the death struggle. When it ended,
there would be no more resistance to the followers of Mohammed.
Like others on that bridge, Oman too had gone mad. He did not think,
he did not feel. He was a machine. His horse, trained to war, had plunged
into the very thick of the battle. On every side men were fighting
together: man to man, two to one, three to one, but always without
concerted action, always as in a series of duels. Of those in the mêlée,
Oman was the only one who wore no armor; and how, during the first ten
minutes, he escaped with his life, it would be impossible to say. After
that, his shield was omnipresent, his sword all-pervading. Man after man
went down before him. Those of Mandu that saw him, marvelled. Their
Saint had become inspired by a demon. The Mohammedans regarded
him with suspicious fear. Was this an angel, a Jin, come from heaven to
defend a chosen country? It seemed, for a few minutes, as if his
appearance might turn the tide of battle. But victory was not for Mandu.
Where the war-cry of the Prophet now rose in India, it was not to be
stilled by any bravery, any heroism. Just now, no one looking at that
close-writhing mass of combatants could have told which way the fight
was going. But there was, for the Indians, a very sense of defeat, a
gradually increasing fear, born of presentiment. Oman felt it with the
rest; but still he fought, with the fierceness of despair.
Not yet, in the closely packed company, had he caught a glimpse of
the young Rajah. Dealing out his blows and parries almost mechanically,
Oman found time to wonder in which of the heaps of dead and dying
piled against the high balustrades of the causeway, the son of Bhavani
lay. But presently the horror of that thought was removed. Just before
him, upreared on a bleeding horse, helmetless, blood-smeared, worn
almost beyond recognition with the work of the last week, was Viradha,
closely beset by a powerful Moslem, whose rich accoutrements and
shining scimitar proclaimed him of rank. In a kind of maze, Oman
watched the young man parry blow after blow, saw the terrible weapon
finally plunged down with undefensible stroke, and, in the same instant,
waking from his trance, flung himself forward across the young man’s
body and lifted his face to that of the Mohammedan. There was a strange
shock. The Moslem recoiled from the blow he had dealt, his eyes fixed
in fascination on something that shone on Oman’s uplifted breast:—the
Asra ruby, blazing in the sun.
Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body
beneath him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his
horse, limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very
heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu
was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a
dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great
Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then
straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians,
those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging
for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving
what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury, and
hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At
once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left, and
Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders, and the
soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the arms, lifted
him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till he stood on his
feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one of the empty
watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him fast, hand and
foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from their accoutrements,
and then, with some words incomprehensible to him, they descended to
the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his thoughts swam
through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of passion setting
in, he mercifully fainted.
He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again,
there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many dead,
not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the horde on
the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight was pouring
through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower. Oman looked
into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he closed his eyes. He
was in great pain; and half of him was numb with lying for so long in
one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the battle, received one or
two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the excitement, but which
now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of his arms and ankles
where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind of stupor of pain. He
could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but he could not think of
anything. Why should he? Everything was gone; and the mass of fact
was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain, recently overactive, was
as weary as his body. He was aware only of the lengthening afternoon,
his own pain, and his rising thirst.
After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young
moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy.
It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a little if
he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving for water. To his
dulled mind it made little difference, just now. Wondering, stupidly, he
fell asleep.
Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after
moonset, which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—
soldiers—who, penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a
torch, and addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown
tongue. Oman, obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet,
swayed and reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into
sensibility by one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed.
So, presently, the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side,
descended the narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the
causeway. Here was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan
conqueror himself. All was deathly still, yet already men were working
by the light of torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks
of light and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge
reeked and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies
blocked the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand,
were great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose;
but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am I
not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had seen
Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that quarter
had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even before this
scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been ready to face the
Unknown Beyond.
It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little
why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their
headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army had
swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race long
accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed the
water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its
empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could
say? Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they
reached the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In
the centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni
and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and
weary soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking,
shouting, laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman
find a familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass
and repass through this court by night and day? Where were the
officials? Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought,
Oman trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the
square, and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed.
The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that
threw a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu
feast had been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-
cellars found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the
tenets of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10]
fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in
his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great
general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the head
of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the figure in
the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on the step
and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture of him there.
The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair and beard framed
a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his armor had been
removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily embroidered and
studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green; and in his belt
was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with emeralds and blood-
stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of that perishable race;
and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet the deep-eyed gaze of him
who wore the lost charm of the Asra.
[10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the
Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were notorious
for debauchery.

Lifting his voice above the general clamor, the conqueror summoned
Oman to him. The captive obeyed, moving slowly forward till he could
have touched the hand of his captor, who still stood gazing at him. Again
their eyes met; and this time, before the penetrating glance of the hermit,
the eyes of the warrior fell. After an instant, however, they were lifted
again, and Osman, speaking in perfect Hindustanee, said:
“Thou art he whom they called, this afternoon, the white Demon?”
“I do not know what men called me.”
“Thou wouldst have saved the young Rajah from my scimitar?”
“Assuredly,” answered Oman, scowling; and the conqueror laughed.
In a moment, however, he was serious again, and, dropping all
preliminaries, demanded: “That stone—the ruby that you wear upon your
neck—what is it called? Where found you it?”
A sudden flash of understanding, of more than understanding, rushed
over Oman. Out of the long, long ago came remembrance of this same
man that now stood before him; and he asked, suddenly, the involuntary
question:
“Art thou Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra?”
“Yes. By the Prophet, how knewest thou I was ibn-Omar?”
Oman did not answer. He took from his throat the chain on which
hung the great ruby; and, with an indescribable gesture, he went forward
and slipped it over the head of the Mohammedan. “It is the Asra ruby,”
said he. “It has found its race again. My trust is finished.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room;
nor did any one attempt to stop him. Osman, confounded, dazed, indeed,
by the assurance of Oman’s act, remained motionless, staring after him.
The two guards who had brought him from the tower, and had watched
the scene with speechless astonishment, seeing that their lord gave no
commands about his recapture, stepped aside to let him pass. And the
others in the room never noticed him at all.
Heeding nothing of what lay behind, entirely fearless of the
conquerors, Oman left the hall in which Rai-Khizar-Pál, and Bhavani,
and lately he himself, had been wont to sit in council, crossed the broad
courtyard where the slave Fidá had so often watched, and finally reached
the road, which was silent, and lighted only by the stars. The palace of
Mandu was behind him, but he had yet one other mission to fulfil. He
went on to the water-palace, which, a little while before, he had beheld,
still with the stillness of death. Was Zenaide there? Or whither was she
gone? He must know. For she had now only him in the world to look to.
When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement
and consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within,
near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round
about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound.
There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the
wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction
from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had
reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum:
her sleeping chamber. Here he found her.
All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung
with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves.
There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt half
a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these were one
or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but uttering no
sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived something else,
which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At the far end of the
room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and upon it, quiet,
peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess of Radha, in her last
sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful, red-dyed hair was bound
smoothly into a high crown above her brow, and one or two white lotos
flowers were fastened above her ears. Her garments were all white, her
feet encased in white shoes. There was but one spot of color anywhere.
Over her heart, beneath her left breast, was a stain of moist crimson, that
widened and spread a little, even as Oman gazed. It told him all that he
would have asked. He stood silent over her, while the women and slaves
crept close, looking up to him with some sign of hope in their heavy
eyes. But, for the first time, perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His
thoughts, indeed, were not here. He was thinking of the slow order in
which every one that he had known and loved in his life had passed into
the other land. It was beginning to come home to him that his own hour
of liberation was near. His eyes travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect
form, from her face, which now, in its repose, showed the marks of time
and sorrow, down her white arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then,
suddenly lifting his hands over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee,
in peace!”
Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him,
demanding what they were to do.
“The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let her
be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye convey
this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord Bhavani.
Thus they shall meet in blessed death.”
Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s
favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying:
“And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a
whisper, for she felt her presumption.
“Whither I go ye know not. Sufficient it is that ye see me for the last
time. I commend your mistress to your care. Farewell.”
Then Oman, in his stained garments, with the marks of fetters on his
wrists and ankles, left the room of mourning and passed through the
house till he came again to the central room. Here, the crises of the day
at last ended, his body was overcome with weariness; and he lay down
beside the marble pool, and slept.
 CHAPTER XVIII
SUNSET

When Oman opened his eyes again, red dawn was just breaking upon
a silent world. Kneeling at the pool, he performed his ablutions, and then
walked to the open door. How fragrant the morning was! The air was
rich with the perfume of flowers. Even in the early freshness there was a
promise of heat; and drowsy bird twitterings complained of it. But
Oman, standing quiet in the door of the water-palace, thought not of
nature. He was looking out across still Mandu, the conquered land; and
the heart in him bled and ached. Yesterday he had fought for his people,
his country, his lord. To-day there remained only the bitterness of
irretrievable defeat. And Oman’s one thought now was for the people:—
the men and women of the fields, who were left to bend beneath the
conqueror’s yoke. These lowly ones, for whom he had labored so long,
he could help no more. If he went among them to-day, and listened to
their plaints, he should have no comfort for them, could counsel nothing
but that which it were best for them to learn for themselves:—
submission.
Oman, faint from long fasting, leaned his head against the door, and
looked out across the quiet fields. His thoughts were turned to strange
things. He remembered that it was the fourth day of April:—the day
when Mandu was accustomed to worship at the distant tombs of Rai-
Khizar-Pál, the Woman, and the Slave. There would be no prayers
offered there to-day. What matter? What mattered anything? To the
strange one, leaning upon the dawn, came a great peace. Perhaps he
slept. Certainly he dreamed; for there passed before him, in the faint
light, a pageant of those whom he had known. And they called to him,
softly, and welcomed him with greetings. First of all, from out of the
long ago, came Kota, his mother, who looked on him with tender eyes, as
one who had worshipped her first-born; and, with gentle motions, she
beckoned to him. Next was Hushka, the Bhikkhu, clad in worn, yellow
robes, with a pale nimbus round his head. There was peace in his shining
eyes, and Oman knew that he no longer dreaded the weary eight months’
pilgrimage. He had won his eternal Arahatship. Then followed Churi,
madness no longer written in his haggard face. He smiled upon Oman,
and called a greeting, in friendly voice. After him came Bhavani, looking
as in life, an expression of high dignity mingling with the infinite
affection in his face. Behind, moved young Viradha, with many wounds;
and Zenaide, newly dead, with lilies in her hands. Slowly, slowly they
passed from sight: phantasms, perhaps, of Oman’s brain. He thought
them gone, when, out of the gray mist, came two more, hand in hand,
spirits interlocked, faint, shadowy, as if they did not live even in their
ghostly land: a man and a woman. Seeing them, Oman shuddered
violently, and shut his eyes. When he looked again upon the world, there
was nothing there. He felt only a great warmth in his heart, a burning
eagerness to answer the calling of his dead. Thus he straightened up, and
started forth, looking neither to the right nor left, in the direction of the
great palace.
His way was lonely. He met no one till he had passed round the
building where the Asra chieftain lay asleep. Behind the palace sat a
little group of slaves, eating a meal of millet cakes and milk, which they
timidly offered to share with Oman. Oman sat with them, and broke their
bread, and drank of their simple beverage; then, rising, he offered them a
ring which he wore in memory of Bhavani:—a circlet of plain gold; all
that he had upon him of any value. Wondering, the simple creatures
accepted it, not in payment for what he had eaten, but because high lords
walk always abroad with gifts for the poor. And, proffering thanks to
Oman and to Vishnu indiscriminately, they watched the hermit begin his
descent of the plateau.
It was nearly noon when he stood at last upon the plain. He had been a
long time coming down; for he had been often obliged to pause and rest.
He began to realize that he was shattered by the struggle of yesterday.
Body and nerves played him false, and the result of his many years of
austere living suddenly threw itself against him and broke his force.
Nevertheless, he proceeded, walking feebly across the plain toward the
river bank, wondering a little how, when he had reached the river, he was
going to finish his journey. None seeing him would have believed that he
could walk five miles more. Yet that was what he had set out to do. He
wished to go to the river temple, to pray for the three that were buried
there.
His passage across the plain was strangely solitary. The rich fields, in
which stood crops already a foot high, the young spears calling for water,
were deserted. Here also was the trace of the invader. All the people of
the lowland, quickly getting news of Mandu’s disaster, had driven
together their herds of cattle and buffalo and retreated with them into the
jungle:—a heedless, sheeplike retreat, that lost them their half-year’s
crops, but could not make encounter with the soldiers of the Prophet less
inevitable.
An hour after noon, weary and faint, tottering, indeed, as he moved,
Oman reached the bank of the bright-flowing Narmáda. Here he found
that his providence had not deserted him. On the shore, close at hand,
drawn a little up from the swift water, lay one of the broad, flat-bottomed
boats used occasionally by peasants for ferrying the stream. The guiding-
poles lay in it—a fact that told much. Those that had used the boat would
not use it again, else they had taken the poles with them. Oman stared at
it for a few moments, uncertainly. Then he waded into the water, and
dragged it, with great effort, after him. When it was afloat, he threw
himself upon it, took one of the poles, pointed his barge down-stream,
and then, as the current took it with a rush, lay down supine, folded his
arms across his breast, and shut his eyes.
The afternoon of the first day of Mohammedan Mandu was growing
late. Yellow shadows lengthened across the fields. To the south, the flat,
alluvial plain stretched away, dotted now and then with a mud town, or
fringed with the jungle into which, in the India of that day, all
civilization sooner or later resolved itself. In the north, not very far
distant, rose the great rock of Mandu, crowned with her circle of stone
palaces; and back of that, a silent, threatening horde, stood the dark
Vindhyas, barriers of the Dekkhan.
Of these things Oman saw none. He knew that they were there, but his
eyes were at rest, and the troubles of life and of conquest had left his
heart. He was floating swiftly into the sunset. His boat, guided as if by
magic, swept on, down the rushing current, till the tiny, dark blot of the
temple-tomb grew, and took shape, and drew near upon the right bank.
After a time Oman stood up to watch, waiting for a moment when he
could beach the boat beside the building. But help was not demanded of
his hands. As they neared the destination, the river curved; and suddenly,
driven by some counter-current, the boat whirled off and ran aground,
exactly in front of the tomb. It was, perhaps, the selfsame twist that had,
more than forty years before, thrown the bodies of the man and woman
up out of their grim refuge. To him that was waiting to enter the temple,
it was a miracle. He felt that he had chosen a true way; that his act in
leaving Mandu had been approved by a higher mind than his.
Now, in the golden afternoon, he stood alone before the tomb. A vast
stillness encompassed him as he moved forward and unlocked the heavy
doors. There, in the dim mustiness of the long-closed place, stood the
two sarcophagi; and, as always, when he came alone hither, he had a
feeling of intimacy with the dead. But this sense had never been so
strong as now. He knelt beside the ashes of Ahalya and Fidá, and prayed
to the great Brahm; and, as he prayed, there arose in his breast an
overmastering desire:—the desire to lay himself down in the shadows of
the little place and sleep. After a time he passed over to the resting-place
of the old Rajah, and dumbly craved his forgiveness for the wrong done
him by his wife and his slave. Then, finally, he went outside again, and
stood upon the bank of the stream.
Sunset had come. The Narmáda rushed by: a tempestuous flood of
crimson and gold. The world was alight with fiery glory. It was the sign
of the conqueror in the land. Only the being who stood alone in his
surrounding solitude, the long years of his expiation and atonement
behind him now, could turn his face fearlessly, without dread, toward
that coppery sky. As he gazed into it, the gray and violet shadows came
stealing out over the splendor. The day was dying. It was again the
prophecy of the India that should, in time, conquer its conquerors.
With a palpitating heart, Oman gazed about him, overcome by the
strangest emotion. It was as if his souls were straining at their fetters. Yet
still there was a sense of desolation, a lack of something that was to
come. Darkness was around him. Then suddenly, out of the west, from
the now hidden fires there, it appeared:—the slender, gray-winged bird,
the mysterious complement of his souls. As of old, straight to his breast
it flew, trembling and warm. Clasping it close, Oman lifted his head and
murmured softly:
“Lord, it is finished. Let me now go.”
Then he turned, and slowly, very slowly, walked into the temple. One
outside, looking in through the shadows, might have perceived that he
laid himself down upon the tomb of the two that had sinned of old; and
that the bird upon his breast was still. A little later, moved, perhaps, by
the evening wind, the doors swung gently to upon the body that had now
delivered up its long-imprisoned souls.

What befell on High I do not know. But the hermit of the Silver Peak,
the Saint of Mandu, was gone. Nor was he seen upon earth again.
THE END
 NEW FICTION

THE CROSSING
By WINSTON CHURCHILL
Author of “The Crisis,” “Richard Carvel,” etc.
With Illustrations in Colors by Sydney Adamson and Lilian Bayliss
Cloth 12mo $1.50
The theme of Mr. Churchill’s new novel is largely the peaceful
conquest of the great Louisiana Territory by American settlers during the
years from the purchase of Louisiana onward. The book’s timeliness is
obvious; but what is more to the point is that the story portrays the
immigration of Americans into the Louisiana Territory, their settlement
therein, and the gradual, sure way in which they brought the empire sold
to us by France under American rule, and implanted in it American
social and political ideas. Mr. Churchill also describes the life of that age
in the States bordering on the east bank of the Mississippi, and the ideals
and standards which actuated the people of those States, and puts into the
form of fiction the whole American spirit of the early years of the nation.
This is the second novel in point of time in the series of novels dealing
with American life which Mr. Churchill is writing. “Richard Carvel,”
which dealt with the Revolutionary War, was the first, and “The Crisis,”
which dealt with the Civil War, was the fourth.

DAUGHTERS OF NIJO: A Romance of Japan

By ONOTO WATANNA
Author of “A Japanese Nightingale,” “The Heart of Hyacinth,” etc.
With Illustrations and Decorations in Colors by Kiyokichi Sano
Cloth 12mo $1.50
Two delicate and dainty love stories woven into one narrative. The
plot turns on the marvellous resemblance between two step-sisters, the
one a royal princess, the other supposedly the daughter of middle-class
people, but really also a “Daughter of Nijo"—Nijo being a prince of
Japan. By an odd fatality each of the sisters loves the man to whom the
other has been betrothed by the relatives. The sisters meet one another
for the first time, and discover this. The happy inspiration occurs to them
to exchange clothes and places; but they are careful not to inform their
respective lovers until after a good many things have happened. It is a
pure romantic story, alive with genuine charm, and written in excellent
English with just a touch of naïve quaintness.

THE ADVENTURES OF ELIZABETH IN RÜGEN

By the author of “Elizabeth and Her German Garden,” etc.
Cloth 12mo $1.50
“Elizabeth in Rügen is well worth the time it takes to read it. Its
optimism, its wholesome outlook, its bubbling merriment, its frank joy
of living—all are so genuine."—The Record-Herald, Chicago.

A LITTLE TRAITOR TO THE SOUTH

A War-time Comedy with a Tragic Interlude
By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
With Illustrations in Colors by A. D. Rahn, and Decorations by C. E.
Hooper
Cloth 12mo $1.50
“A charming story of war-time in Charleston, one in which is breathed
the atmosphere of the quaint old town, and from which is gleaned an
excellent conception of the spirit of her people.”—Augusta Herald.

THE SINGULAR MISS SMITH

By FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY
Author of “Titus: A Comrade of the Cross,” etc.
With Illustrations by Will Grefe
Cloth 12mo $1.25
This new story by Mrs. Kingsley is full of human interest. A rich
young orphan endeavors to find out how working women live. So she
goes out to service and has various adventures, during which she meets a
foundryman who seems to be above his station. Finding that she is
falling in love with him, she returns to her own social sphere. Afterwards
she meets him on board ship, and he turns out to be a teacher of
sociology in Harvard; and they begin life together with the joint
determination to spend all of her money in doing good.

THE FAITH OF MEN,

By JACK LONDON
Author of “The Call of the Wild,” “The Children of the Frost,” etc.
The inspiration to write came to Mr. London first on the Klondike
trail. His stories of miners and adventures in contact with Alaskan
natives and Esquimaux won him instant fame and popularity; and they
rank among the more enduring recent American fiction. Critics have said
that Mr. London’s short stories are among the most virile and artistic in
the language.

THE MERRY ANNE

By SAMUEL MERWIN
Joint author of “The Short Line War” and “Calumet ‘K’”
With Illustrations and Decorations in Colors by Thomas Fogarty
A story of action pure and simple, virile and vigorous in its movement.
As a bit of story telling, the book has decided grip and force.

THE AMERICAN PRISONER

A Romance of the West Country
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS
Author of “Children of the Mist," “My Devon Year,” etc.
With Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson
Cloth 12mo $1.50
“Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and
racy turns of speech.”—The Spectator, London.