And Devadatta rode a horse so black that in the night he seemed a part of it, but Siddhartha’s horse was white, proud and great and gentle, and his name shall not be forgotten while the round world holds, for he was Kantaka—and of him more hereafter. And when the maiden, looking between the curtains of her palanquin so that none might know she looked, saw the young Sakya lord, her heart left her bosom and fled into his, settling there like a bird nestling with feet and wings, for there was none like him—none. With calm he sat his horse, awaiting the moment, and young he was and slender and like an image of pure gold, and his eyes were blue and dark after the manner of his people, and his lips and cheek shaped by a great graver. He carried his head as a stag in the spring season, and for all his slenderness was he tense and eager as a bow in the hand of the Brahma King with the arrow laid on the string. And so he waited, and his eyes never sought the palanquin where was hidden the Pearl of Victory. And to her sick heart she said: “He is not mine! He is above me. What woman can cloud the serenity of those eyes? How can the fiery dart of Madhu, the God of Love, pierce that breast, guarded with the snow of high thoughts? He is a King too high for me—too high.” And it is true that the noble youth thought little of the maiden, but much of the great clash with his rivals, for he knew well that Honour was the prize of the day and that his father’s heart must needs break if he failed before all the Kin of the House and the people. Now it is certain that of this jousting many tales have grown up, of arrows flying miraculously, winged by eager Gods, of sword-strokes such as the world has never seen nor shall see, of horses that the Wind, Vaya himself, might bestride for swiftness and cruel, dangerous pride. And how all this may be I know not, who was not there; but this I know, that Siddhartha was better than the best in all the tests, and that the people stormed and shouted and laughed and wept, knowing not what they did so only they might hail him conqueror, while he stood leaning on his sword, breathing lightly and resting, for the first time smiling, a very splendid young knight. And the Maharaja, scarcely daring to look in his son’s face lest he should too openly show his pride and joy, said only: “Son, you have done well.” And, turning, “Bring forth the bride.”