But compassion grew daily in his heart now that his eyes were opened—Compassion for all the sorrows that surrounded him bleeding in his heart like a wound such as drains life itself away. He saw the little lovely dancer Amra drag wearied feet through the dance one night and called her to him. “Child, what ails you?” “Great my lord, I must not tell you. But I dance no more. To-morrow I go.” “Child, I command you to speak. What is it?” She looked about her with eyes large and fearful as the deer’s when she sees the hunter’s knife glitter above her. “Great my lord, it is an order. I dare not speak.” “My order stands higher. Speak.” She trembled as she stood, with fear and weakness. “My lord, it is the sickness. Two years ago my sister Vijaya was a dancer. Yourself has commended her. But the cruel cough came and tore her breast, and at last she could scarcely lift her little feet, and then they sent her secretly away, and she spat blood and the cough devoured her, and she died. And now it has taken me also and the blood came from my mouth last night, and to-morrow I go. But O I beseech your greatness to hide my words, for it is forbidden that any grief should soil the air about your noble presence.” “But when you rest the cough will decline and you will be glad again, my sister.” “Great Prince, I shall die. For this there is no cure.” There was a long silence. “And do you fear this?” “My lord, I fear very terribly—but there is no help. What must be, must. And I am now too weary to dance, and it is better I die for I am a burden and a distress to my mother now I am worth no more money, and she is poor. There is scarce bread to eat.” Then the blood poured into the pale face of Siddhartha for shame and horror, and he said: “On such foundations was my happiness built, and others have bled and wept that I might laugh! O, evil Gods, shameful and disastrous to man, if this is all! How shall the heart of man forgive your crimes against us, and where is justice in all the wide Three Worlds?” And as he spoke he lifted the chain of pearls from his shoulders and threw them upon the dancer’s and she, beholding his nobleness and grief with tears, went sobbing away. The next day he sent a message to the Maharaja. “Great father, since now I know all the secrets and there is nothing hidden from me of the world’s woe, what hinders that I should go free to see it? It may be that some joy shall meet my eyes and relieve the burning of the flame of pity that consumes me. Also, since I have a son it is now surely well that I should see and know the lives of the people whom he and I one day shall rule. And I say this for truth, I am weary, weary even to death of the music and dancing and the miserable diversions of my prison, and if there be any hope for me it is in the things of men, for I have done with those of women and children. Set your prisoner free. It is your son who beseeches.” And when the Maharaja agreed, the Prince sent another message.