"Last night！"—I am quoting the Moon's ownwords—"lastnight I was gliding through the cloudless In－dian sky．My face was mirrored in the waters of theGanges，and my beams strove to pierce through the thickintertwining boughsof the plane trees，arching beneath melike thetortoise's shell．Forth from the thicket tripped aHindoomaid，light was a gazelle，beautifulas Eve．Therewas something so airy and ethrereal，and yet so full andfirm in this daughter of Hindostan：I could read herthoughts through her delicate skin．The thorny creepingplants tore her sandals，butfor all that she came rapidlyforward．The deer whichcame from the river where it hadquenched its thirst，sprangby with a startled bound，for inher hand the maiden borea lighted lamp．I could see the blood in her delicatefinger－tips，as she spread themfor ascreen before the flame．She came down to thestream，andset the lamp upon the water，and let it float away．Theflame flickered toand fro，and seemed ready to expire；butstill the lamp burned on，and the girl'sblack sparklingeyes，half－veiledbehind their long silken lashes，followedit with a gazeof earnest intensity．She well knew that ifthe lampcontinued to burn so long as she could keep it insight，herbetrothed still alive；but if the lamp wassuddenlyextinguished，he was dead．Andthe lampburned and quivered，and her heart burned andtrembled；she fell on her knees，andprayed．Near her in the grasslay a speckled snake，but she heeded it not—she thoughtonly ofBrahma and of her betrothed．' He lives！'sheshouted joyfully，' he lives！'And from the mountains theecho came back upon her，'He lives！'"
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