"I can't give you that." He said, "Why cannot you give me your
swami (family idol)?" I said, "It is my swami, I will not part with it;
rather take my life." On this he pressed me no more, but said, "Now you
had better go home." I said, "I will not leave you." "Oh you must," he
said, "you will die here of hunger." "Never mind," I said, "I can but
die once." "You have no clothes to protect you from the wind and rain;
you may meet with tigers," he said. "I don't care," I replied. "It is
given to man once to die. What does it signify how he dies?" When I
said this he took my hand and embraced me, and immediately I became
unconscious. When I returned to consciousness, I found myself with the
Sannyasi in a place new to me on a hill, near a large rock and with a
big shola near. I saw in the shola right in front of us, that there was
a pillar of fire, like a tree almost. I asked the Sannyasi what was
that like a high fire. "Oh," he said, "most likely a tree ignited by
some careless wood-cutters."
"No," I said, "it is not like any common fire--there is no smoke, nor
are there flames--and it's not lurid and red.
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