He had reached his thirty-third year only, yet he had lost all.
God had given him everything that makes the happiness of man. Riches,
greatness, prosperity, honour--all these he had received from the
beginning in unwonted measure. Without intelligence these had been
nothing, but God had given that also without stint. His education had
not been neglected by his parents; who was so well instructed as
himself? Beauty, strength, health, lovableness--these also nature had
given to him with liberal hand. That gift which is priceless in the
world, a loving, faithful wife, even this had been granted to him; who
on this earth had possessed more of the elements of happiness? who was
there on earth to-day more wretched? If by giving up everything,
riches, honour, beauty, youth, learning, intelligence, he could have
changed conditions with one of his palanquin-bearers, he would have
considered it a heavenly happiness. "Yet why a bearer?" thought he;
"is there a prisoner in the gaols of this country who is not more
happy than I? not more holy than I? They have slain others; I have
slain Surja Mukhi. If I had ruled my passions, would she have been
brought to die such a death in a strange place? I am her murderer.
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