The suspense continued for a long time. Hushka’s heart was full, and his brain reeling. Now he addressed himself passionately to Gautama, now he turned to his own judgment. Prayer and reasoning, however, led him alike to one conclusion—a conclusion pitiless to himself, pitiless to Oman. Nay, the cruel result was inevitable. Oman had dared formulate nothing to himself; but Hushka was obliged to face the situation. After a long time, then, the monk went back to his pupil, sat down beside him, laid a trembling hand on the prostrate shoulder, and began to speak, softly, as a mother might: “Thou knowest, Oman, that the word of the Mahavagga is our law. If the Samgha knew this thing that thou hast told me, thou wouldst suffer public exposition and expulsion. I, knowing, dare not let thee remain here. Thou must escape to-night, quietly; and I will be here to—to accept the consequences of thy going. I can do no more for thee. But the blessed Buddha, the Sakya—” He broke off, suddenly, for Oman, raising himself halfway from the floor, had begun to laugh. Hushka shuddered as he listened. It was so high, so harsh, so quavering, that it seemed as if it must go on forever. But suddenly it broke, and melted into a long, heart-broken wail. Oman was going to pieces; and Hushka sanely set to work to stop it. How it was accomplished he scarcely knew. Under sharp command and gentlest soothing Oman was presently quiet again, save for the trembling of his body, and the little, broken moans that involuntarily escaped him. Now that he had pulled himself together, Hushka left him for a quarter of an hour, and then reappeared, carrying over one arm an old and much-worn garment that was not yellow. In the other hand he had a small millet loaf.