“Therefore am I come. Lead me now to the young child that I may see him and be glad also. Rejoice, O Maharaja of happy fortune, for most surely is it owing to your righteous deeds in former lives that this good celestial is fallen to your lot!” And the Maharaja, dumb with love and pride, led the way to the palace hall where the child slept; and they uncovered his little lovely person that the old man might see and be glad also. So he considered the precious marks and signs of his body, assuring him to be a Buddha, one perfect in enlightenment, reading and comprehending them all with a heart that scarce for joy could believe what lay before him. And, seeing these wonderful birth-portents, the tears rolled down his cheeks; and at his weeping fear seized the father, and he bowed down at the ascetic’s feet, crying: “O what is my lord’s grief: O what are his tears? Is the child doomed? Do we lose him? Forbid it, all-seeing Divinities! Forbid it that one parched, within reach of the eternal draught, should lose all and perish of thirst! Forbid it that I should lose my treasure! For when a man dies who owns a son, it is as a man with two eyes—one sleeps yet the other watches,—but a man without a son is blind in death’s darkness.” And the ascetic, seeing his grief, answered swiftly: “Sir, have no fear. Good and better than good are the portents. I wept for myself. This child shall rule the world, but I, by reason of my age, shall not live to see it. Deep and full and wide is the river of his Law. Like a great lake is the calm of his Yoga; like the sun at the zenith his wisdom. The earth shall be glad for him, and he shall reign and he SHALL reign, and mighty the glory of his dominion!” And having said this, the ascetic departed mysteriously, after the fashion of the Instructed, leaving joy as his gift. But still Prajapati watched by the Queen Maya and leaned her ear close to catch a whisper—for as yet the Great Lady had not spoken. And now the child lay in the hollow of her arm, and it was the seventh day. And without raising her lashes, she whispered: “Sister, my true sister! On the seventh day I die, for so it is with those mothers whose joy, too great for the lowlands of earth, soars like a bird to the mountains of heaven. My joy is winged. No more can it walk beside my sweet sister nor follow my husband as his shadow nor guard the steps of my child. It is become divine. Already its wings quiver for flight. But all is well. My place is prepared in a heaven where my bliss, rolling outward, may spread into a sea to mirror the Wisdom I have borne. And you, my true sister, will not forget me, but, taking this child for your own, will nourish him with noble milk from your pure bosom. And for our lord you will take heed. And this I know, that the Way of Peace shall be opened to the feet of my son’s foster-mother as to mine.”