By two o’clock the wanderers were on their way again, and Hushka told his pupil where they were to pass the night. Some miles farther on, in a valley, was a large banyan grove, inhabited by hermits of various sects, among whom were half a dozen Buddhists, who passed their lives in rigid asceticism, but had abandoned the routine of pilgrimage and Vassa. For a long time they proceeded on their way, following the track of the sun into the southwest, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Oman, as much out of desire to listen to Hushka’s melodious voice as to learn something of the Being both were worshipping, began to question his master concerning the holy life. And Hushka, taking up his duty, recited to his companion the history of the life of Gautama Sramana, from the hour of his birth in the forest of Kapila-Vastu, until that of his death in the forest of Tirhut, where he fell back into the arms of his disciples, murmuring: “I am exhorting you for the last time. Transitory things are perishable. Without delay, qualify yourselves for Nirvâna.” The life-story, told simply, but with an eloquence born of reverent love, moved Oman powerfully. Here, indeed, was a man!—a man who had lived a comprehensible life and had died naturally. To his mind, crammed with legendary tales of Vedic demigods and monsters, with all their meaningless miracles and overinterpreted allegorical deeds, there was something in this remarkable, but perfectly credible history, that brought conviction of the truth of the Buddha’s doctrines. The life he had lived was enviable. Evidently he had seen clearly from the very beginning; had known his course and had run it, gathering strength as he went on. True, the Buddha had been born into honor and riches, and had never had the terrible struggles of loneliness forced on him. But he had chosen these for himself; and he had voluntarily made himself outcast from men. These musings occupied Oman till the sun was setting on their first day’s journey. They were now descending the slope that led into the valley of the banyan tree. When they reached its level, and could look down the long aisle of trunks into the green twilight of this natural temple, Oman felt a throb of pleasure, as one at home. They entered in silence, and had not walked far before the light of a fire became visible among the trees in the distance. Thither they bent their steps, and, reaching it, found that it burned before the entrance of a small building, built around the tree trunks. Beside this shrine and before the fire were half a dozen naked men, their black hair wild and dishevelled, their bodies caked with dirt and disfigured with scars of flagellation. “These are Agivakas. We do not stop here,” murmured Hushka, as they approached.