When they reached the bazaar, they found in it a busy throng of men and women, buying, selling, shouting, laughing, wrangling, gossiping together, each contributing in some way to the general tumult. Oman wondered not a little how his companion was going to obtain hearing here. Hushka, however, appeared as untroubled as if he had mounted a platform before a respectfully attentive multitude; and Oman, interested in the prospect, still lingered, watching his chance acquaintance. First, the Bhikkhu reminded Oman of his own personal neglect, by going to the fountain in the middle of the square, and carefully washing out his alms-bowl. When it was cleaned and dried, he still stood, resting one hand upon the stone, looking thoughtfully around him. One or two people, passing, caught his eye, and halted, uncertainly. Then three or four middle-aged and old men drew out of the throng and stood still, close at hand. They were those that had a curiosity concerning the dying faith: perhaps even, in their secret hearts, leaned a little toward it; and usually availed themselves of each rare opportunity of listening to the Dharma. Having now before him the nucleus of an audience, Hushka faced them, his back to the fountain. Absently he stuck his flat bowl into the pouch depending from his leathern girdle, fixing his eyes, the while, upon Oman, who, fascinated by the man’s simplicity, still stood, apart from the others, watching and waiting. And now the Buddhist lifted both hands, clasped them high before him, and repeated, in tones of greatest reverence, the Buddhist profession of faith, with which all mendicant preachers were accustomed to begin their discourse: “‘Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata (Buddha) explained. The great Sramana (Buddha) hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence.’” At these words, spoken in a low, melodious, monotonous voice, addressed, not to the people, but, apparently, to Heaven, Oman, unconscious of himself, took a step nearer to the speaker. After a slight pause, Hushka, now removing his eyes from Oman’s face and using them at discretion, began his sermon, choosing language that was clear and simple, using figures calculated to appeal to the people, carrying his hearers with him by means of his own personal magnetism, which was never at so high a pitch as when he was engaged in this kind of speaking. Gradually, his audience increased in numbers. The little group of half a dozen became twelve, and then twenty, and then forty, till the clamor in the market-place was strangely diminished, and buyers and sellers alike stood still before the power of this wanderer of alien and dying faith, surnamed, by his brethren of the Vihara, “honey-throated”, and “golden-tongued”. And this was the nature of his address; these the words that he spoke: