Explore "The Pilgrim Kamanita" by Karl Gjellerup on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At that time I always spent the first hours of the night on the Terrace of the Sorrowless, either alone or with Medini. On the evening of the day of which I have just spoken, I was there by myself, and, in the state of mind in which I then was, the solitude was most agreeable. The full moon shone as on those memorable nights of the past, and I stood before the great asoka with its wealth of blossoms, to beg from it, from the "heartsease," a comforting omen for my troubled heart. After some time I said to myself, "If, between me and the trunk, a saffron-yellow flower should fall before I have counted a hundred, then is my beloved Kamanita yet alive."
When I had counted to fifty, a flower fell, but an orange-coloured one. When I reached eighty I began to count more and more slowly. Just then a creaking door opened in the corner between the terrace and the wall of the house, where a stair led down into the courtyard -- a flight of steps really intended only for workmen and gardeners.