“O kind father, worthy of all obedience, hear my case. The grief that has moved me is not my grief alone. Were I to die, I can die silent, after the manner of our race. But a man, when he beholds other men old, diseased, dying, is hurt, ashamed, revolted that such things should be, and no way of conquering such evils. There is a way if it could but be found.” And the Maharaja replied with anger. “What way? This is child’s folly. These things have been from Eternity, and men have faced the common lot as best they could, taking their pleasure where they might. What would you have more than others? Life is good, if you will but see it.” But Siddhartha answered steadfastly. “O my father, I desire your august permission to seek the solitude, and there, deeply meditating, to find true deliverance not only for myself but for you and all the world.” And when the Maharaja heard these words—“to seek the solitude” a great trembling of the heart seized him, and his strong voice choked in his throat. And at last, even as the mighty wild elephant shakes with his weight the boughs of a fair green sapling in the jungle, he caught the hands of the Prince and clung to them most pitifully, crying aloud. “Stop. Let not such ill-omened words be spoken. The time is not yet come—even if come it must. You are young and full of life and your heart beats to a glad measure. If you were to do this miserable thing you would bitterly repent it. You have not the strength, nor the knowledge. This is a resolution for old men, world-wearied. But you—beautiful as the day, full of youth, husband of a fair and dutiful wife, father of a young son, what talk is this? My son, I am ashamed for you. It is for me to undertake the ascetic’s life, for you to rule in Kapila. Let it be so, and I will go.” And Siddhartha holding his father’s hands tenderly replied thus: “My father, honoured and loved, you are the ruler and what have I to do with putting you from your seat? No—far be it from me! Rule in gladness and honour until the appointed day. But for myself—there is but one condition on which I can stay! If you will assure me against old age, disease, and death, I will remain—but not otherwise.” And the Maharaja, blind with grief, the white hairs showing on head and beard, said only: “Such words are impious. Am I a God that I can say to these three, ‘Thus far and no farther’? No—Betake yourself to pleasure and business like other men and forget. There is no other remedy.” But Siddhartha flung himself on his knees before his father and grasped his robe in the agony of his pleading. “Father, hinder me no more if you love me. If I were shut in a burning home would you bar the door? Let me solve my doubt for it consumes my very life. O let me go, let me go! For if not—what way is left? Men have slain themselves for a lesser hope than mine, that perhaps down the dark ways of death they might seek and find what they could not in this world of lies and counterfeits.”