“So it shall be done. Is it also your pleasure, Maharaja, that I set a guard at the gate of the park of the three Pleasure Houses?” And he answered: “It is my pleasure. And now I will visit my son’s wife and hear her mind.” So he went to the place of the women in the great house. And his presence being told to Yashodara, she came before him, sweet as the star of evening bathed in rosy vapours, for a dress fell about her coloured as though dipped in the blood of red roses and bound with gold that, winding spirally upward round her lovely limbs and bosom, embraced them, drawing the eye to the slender curves, and she wore no jewels but only the great rings in her ears sparkling with fiery gems. And he drew her to his feet and she sat on a cushion beside him, looking upward with duty and affection, waiting for the favour of his speech. And at last, having observed the delicate sweetness of her face and her grace and majesty, he said, sighing: “Noble daughter, you have now been wedded to my son, Siddhartha, for six months. Is all well with you?” And, stooping to touch his feet, she replied: “Great father, all is well. And I did not know that in all the world there was such joy as I share night and day with my dear lord. For beyond all beauty he is beautiful and beyond all goodness, good, and his gentleness of speech is not like that of a woman, but with strength behind it like Himalaya when he smiles in sunshine. And yet——” The words stopped like hovering birds on her sweet lips and her fine brows drew together as she meditated. And the Maharaja, drawing his hand from her head, leaned forward to look into her eyes. “Daughter, have you a doubt—and what is it?” She, lovely and submissive, made haste to answer: “Great lord, all is pure joy, and yet——” And he, in great anger, so that she shrank down, veiling her face with her hands: “And yet! When I command my minister to surround my son with all joy wherewith to bind and hold him, he obeys, but ends always with ‘And yet—’ as though some mystery surrounded him! And you, that should triumph in pride and joy, say the like. My son is fair and free and noble and sharer in my riches and pride. What is this miserable ‘And yet—’ that mocks my hope? Speak out, woman, and tell me what is in your heart.” And, kindling her courage at his sternness, the wife of Siddhartha looked at him with clear, unsullied eyes. “Father, all I have said is truth, but there is also this. In the midst of rejoicings of song and when the women dance before him and the feast is spread and the great fruits, cooled with snow, and purple wines in cut crystal cups are set to his hand, then often I know that though his fair body is among us, his soul is escaped and fled away.” And in her eyes two tears gathered and stood but did not fall. And he, with anger: