Certainly it was a remarkable face. The eyes were very large, and dark, and long-lashed; and the look in them was such as one finds in oxen. The man’s body was lean to emaciation; but his face, owing to the round-cut hair, had more or less of a full appearance. His robes—which he wore in the regular Buddhist manner, over the left shoulder, under the right, and reaching to the heels,—were well worn, as were his sandals, and the knotty, wooden staff in his hand. On his back was a small bundle, fastened with a rope; and this, with an alms-bowl, completed his equipment for the eight months’ yearly pilgrimage prescribed for every Bhikkhu. When his swift scrutiny was ended, Oman, following a sudden impulse, went a little closer to the man, and said, gently: “Peace to your heart, reverend sir. Let me fill your bowl with food.” The Bhikkhu bowed, and silently handed his dish to the young man, regarding him the while with grave scrutiny. Oman carried the bowl inside, and requested his mother to fill it with whatever was at hand. Kota, decidedly taken aback, complied with the request, albeit it was the first Buddhist bowl ever filled in that Brahman household. Kota prepared a dish for her son at the same time; and Oman carried them both outside. The monk received his with humble thanks; and, squatting on the ground where he was, without prayer or ceremony began his meal. Oman watched him for a moment, and concluded that, since he was already half a day late, another hour would make little difference. So he sat down at some distance from the stranger, and himself began to eat. They finished at the same time, and, rising, faced each other inquiringly. This time it was the monk who spoke. “For thine alms, I give thee thanks. One favor more I will ask of thee. Tell me in what direction lies the bazaar; for thither I must go to preach Dharma[5] to the people.” [5] Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law. “O Bhikkhu, on my way to work I shall pass through the bazaar. If you will walk with me, I will lead you thither.” The monk looked astonished at this civility, but agreed at once to the proposal; and, Oman having left his dish on the veranda, they started down the winding street in the direction of the market-place. As they went, they talked, scatteringly, and Oman found himself listening with delight to the low, mellow tones of his companion’s voice. The Bhikkhu’s name, he found, was Hushka. He was now returning from his pilgrimage and on his way to Bágh, where he was to spend the summer months, the Yassa season, in one of the Viharas there.