"Be still, Sir. Don't move," said the woman beside him in a soft, sweet tone.
"Where am I?" enquired the Prince faintly.
"Pray Sir, be quiet," said she in the same musical tone. "You are in a proper place, Sir. Don't be uneasy. Don't speak."
"What's the time now?" asked the Prince still more faintly.
"'Tis afternoon" replied she "Be quiet, I beseech you. You won't come all right if you talk; and we must leave the place."
"One word more,"—said he with an effort, "who are you,?"
"Aesha," replied the damsel.
The Prince fell to studying Aesha’s countenance in silence. Had he seen her before? No.
Aesha might be twenty-two. She was beautiful to a degree; but it is not possible to depict that style of beauty in a word or two. Tilottama also was exceedingly beautiful; but Aesha's beauty was not of that type. The charms of the ever young Bimala also fascinated people; but neither could they claim fellowship with Aesha's transcendental graces. The loveliness of some damsels is like the blossoming of the vernal Mallika[1]—fresh-blooming, closing for bashfulness, tender, serenely bright and deliciously fragrant. Tilottama was such an one. Some women are like the afternoon Stala-padma,[2] odourless, about to close, wanting moisture, yet graceful, full-blown, splendid and ripe with honey. Such were the charms of Bimala. Aesha resembled
