ILENTLY in the moonlit night the two crossed the open country. Mohendra was silent, sorrowful, full of pride, but also a little curious.
Suddenly Bhavananda's whole aspect changed. No longer was he the ascetic, serious of aspect, calm of mood; no longer the skilful fighter, the heroic figure of the man who had beheaded the English captain with the sweep of a sword; no longer had he that aspect with which even now he had proudly rebuked Mohendra. It was as if the sight of that beauty of plain and forest, river and numerous streams, all the moonlit peaceful earth, had stirred his heart with a great gladness; it was as if Ocean were laughing in the moonbeams. Bhavananda became smiling, eloquent, courteous of speech. He grew very eager to talk and made many efforts to open a conversation, but Mohendra would not speak. Then Bhavananda, having no other resource, began to sing to himself.
The song astonished Mohendra and he could understand nothing of it. Who might be this richly watered, richly fruited Mother, cool with delightful winds and dark with the harvests? "What Mother?" he asked.
Bhavananda without any answer continued his song.
Mohendra said, "That is the country, it is not the Mother."
Bhavananda replied, "We recognize no other Mother. 'Mother and Motherland is more than heaven itself.' We say the motherland is our mother. We have neither mother nor father nor brother nor friend, wife nor son nor house nor home. We have her alone, the richly-watered, richly-fruited, cool with delightful winds, rich with harvests—"
Then Mohendra understood and said, "Sing it again." Bhavananda sang once more.
Mohendra saw the robber as he sang shedding tears. In wonder he asked, "Who are you?"
Bhavananda replied, "We are the Children."
"What is meant by the Children?" asked Mohendra. "Whose children are you?"
Bhavananda replied, "The children of the Mother."
"Good;" said Mohendra, "do the children worship their mother with theft and looting? What kind of filial piety is that?"
"We do not thieve and loot," answered Bhavananda.
"Why, just now you plundered the carts."
"Is that theft and looting? Whose money did we plunder?"
"Why, the ruler's."
"The ruler's! What right has he to the money, that he should take it?"
"It is his royal share of the wealth of the country."
"Who rules and does not protect his kingdom, is he a ruler at all?"
"I see you will be blown one day from the cannon's mouth by the sepoys."
"I have seen your rascal sepoys more than once: I dealt with some today too."
"Oh, that was not a real experience of them; one day you will get it."
"Suppose it is so, a man can only die once."
"But what profit is there in going out of one's way to die?"
"Mohendra Singha," said Bhavananda, "I had a kind of idea that you were a man worth the name, but now I see you are what all the rest of them are, merely the death of ghee and milk. Look you, the snake crawls on the ground and is the lowest of living things, but put your foot on the snake's neck and even he will rise with lifted hood. Can nothing overthrow your patience then? Look at all the countries you know, Magadh, Mithila, Kashi, Kanchi, Delhi, Cashmere, in what other country do men from starvation eat grass? eat thorns? eat the earth white ants have gathered? eat the creepers of the forest? where else are men forced to eat dogs and jackals, yes, even the bodies of the dead? where else can men have no ease of heart because of fear for the money in their chests, the household gods on their sacred seats, the young women in their homes, the unborn children in the women's wombs? Ay, here they rip open the womb and tear out the child. In every country the relation with the ruler is that of protector and protected, but what protection do our Mussulman rulers give us? Our religion is destroyed, our caste defiled, our honour polluted, our family honour shamed and now our very lives are going the same way. Unless we drive out these vice-besodden longbeards, the Hinduism of the Hindu is doomed."
"How will you drive them out?" asked Mohendra.
"By blows."
"You will drive them out single-handed? With one slap, I suppose."
The robber sang:
"But" said Mohendra, "I see you are alone."
"Why, just now you saw two hundred men."
"Are they all Children?"
"They are all Children."
"How many more are there of them?"
"Thousands like these, and by degrees there will be yet more!"
"Even if there were ten or twenty thousand, will you be able with that number to take the throne from the Mussulman?"
"What army had the English at Plassey?"