Remorse

There is an old saying in Rajput that woman and the four winds were
born at the same time, of the same mother: blew hot, blew cold,
balmily, or tempestuously, from all points at once. Perhaps.

In the zenana of the royal palace there was a woman, tall, lithe, with
a skin of ivory and roses and eyes as brown as the husk of a water
chestnut. On her bare ankles were gem-incrusted anklets, on her arms
bracelets of hammered gold, round her neck a rope of pearls and
emeralds and rubies and sapphires. And still she was not happy.

From time to time her fingers strained at the roots of her glossy black
hair and the whites of her great eyes glistened. She bit her lips to
keep back the sobs crowding in her throat. She pressed her hands
together so tightly that the little knuckles cracked.

"Ai, ai!" she wailed softly.

She paced the confines of her chamber with slow step, with fast step;
or leaned against the wall, her face hidden in her arms; or pressed her
hot cheeks against the cool marble of the lattice.

Human nature is made up of contraries. Why, when we have had the
courage coolly to plan murder, or to aid or suggest it, why must we be
troubled with remorse? More than this, why must we battle against the
silly impulse to tell the first we meet what we have done? Remorse:
what is it?

Now, this woman of the zenana believed not in the God of your fathers
and mine. She was a pagan; her Heaven and hell were ruled by a
thousand gods, and her temples were filled with their images. Yet this
thing, remorse, was stabbing her with its hot needles, till no torture
devised by man could equal it.