Her heart could no longer endure not to see its lord.  One morning, about four o’clock, while Hira was still sleeping, Kunda Nandini arose, and opening the door noiselessly, stepped out of the house.  The dark fortnight being ended, the slender moon floated in the sky like a beautiful maiden on the ocean.  Darkness lurked in masses amid the trees.  The air was so still that the lotus in the weed-covered pool bordering the road did not shed its seed; the dogs were sleeping by the wayside; nature was full of sweet pensiveness.  Kunda, guessing the road, went with doubtful steps to the front of the Datta house; she had no design in going, except that she might by a happy chance see Nagendra.  Her return to his house might come about; let it occur when it would, what harm was there in the meantime in trying to see him secretly?  While she remained shut up in Hira’s house she had no chance of doing so.  Now, as she walked, she thought, “I will go round the house; I may see him at the window, in the palace, in the garden, or in the path.”  Nagendra was accustomed to rise early; it was possible Kunda might obtain a glimpse of him, after which she meant to return to Hira’s dwelling.  But when she arrived at the house she saw nothing of Nagendra, neither in the path, nor on the roof, nor at the window.  Kunda thought, “He has not risen yet, it is not time; I will sit down.”  She sat waiting amid the darkness under the trees; a fruit or a twig might be heard, in the silence, loosening itself with a slight cracking sound and falling to the earth.  The birds in the boughs shook their wings overhead, and occasionally the sound of the watchmen knocking at the doors and giving their warning cry was to be heard.  At length the cool wind blew, forerunner of the dawn, and the papiya (a bird) filled the air with its musical voice.  Presently the cuckoo uttered his cry, and at length all the birds uniting raised a chorus of song.  Then Kunda’s hope was extinguished; she could no longer sit under the trees, for the dawn had come and she might be seen by any one.  She rose to return.  One hope had been strong in her mind.  There was a flower-garden attached to the inner apartments, where sometimes Nagendra took the air.  He might be walking there now; Kunda could not go away without seeing if it were so.  But the garden was walled in, and unless the inner door was open there was no entrance.  Going thither, Kunda found the door open, and, stepping boldly in, hid herself within the boughs of a bakul tree growing in the midst.  Thickly-planted rows of creeper-covered trees decked the garden, between which were fine stone-made paths, and here and there flowering shrubs of various hues—­red, white, blue, and yellow.  Above them hovered troops of insects, coveting the morning honey, now poising, now flying, humming as they went; and, following the example of man, settling in flocks on some specially attractive flower.  Many-coloured birds of small size, flower-like themselves, hovered over the blossoms, sipping the sweet juices and pouring forth a flood of melody.  The flower-weighted branches swayed in the gentle breeze, the flowerless boughs remaining still, having nothing to weigh them down.  The cuckoo, proud bird, concealing his dark colour in the tufts of the bakul tree, triumphed over every one with his song.