But he appealed in vain for the ears of his father were sealed, and when after pleading even to anguish the Prince had left him grave and silent, he issued orders that the Garden House should be guarded more strictly than before—that fresh dancers, fresh music, should be ordered and new pleasures invented and that every road and way should be watched with ten-fold diligence. And Siddhartha seeing the tears of his father with a compassion that pierced his own heart returned to the Garden House, and set himself in silence to consider, not knowing whence help would find him, but firm in his resolve. And beneath the trees Yashodara awaited him, carrying his young son in her arms, and she knelt beside him, uncovering the face of the child, bright and beautiful as a budding rose in earliest summer. For she thought—“Let this speak for me,” and Siddhartha read the little face so like his own, in silence. Then, stretching out his hand, he clasped the hand of his wife, and spoke thus: “Well-beloved, if our child were in a house ruining about him, and I stood by to see him crushed and broken, what would be your thoughts of me?” She smiled with pride and contentment. “Why ask? That could not be. You would give your life for him and count it nothing.” “Well-beloved, mother of my son, that word is true; you know it. And would you who love me hold me back if I rushed on death for his sake, counting my own life as nothing?” “For my love’s sake I would bid you go.” “True again. So speak, so do the women of our race. But hear further. Suppose my son fallen into bitter poverty, and that I knew of a great treasure hidden in far-off forests and mountains, so far that great was the danger, great the severance, would you bid me stay or go?” Doubt clouded the beauty of her eyes, raised toward him. “There, my heart’s lord, I know not. You are more to my son and me than any treasure. What are jewels, pearls or gold compared with the heaven of your presence? Better poverty together and the blue heaven above us and bright earth beneath, than loneliness and splendour.” Clasping her hand he answered: “But starving, his face gaunt with want, haunted by ghosts of grief and fear, would you send me or bid me stay? Think well, mother of my son. Would you weigh your grief against his good, and he too young to know?” And she answered: “I would say, Go—how otherwise? But, O beloved, these words are dreadful. Forget them. Look at the sunset strewing roses on the cold snows and the splendour of Surya driving his chariot down the western sky after the long day of glory. He is weary of pomp and colour. He longs for the cool refreshing dews and the dusk and quiet and the dark repose of midnight. Would that we could see him face to face, golden-eyed and inconceivably divine. The Gods are far and grief is near.” He loosed her hand gently. “Those words are true also, wise and beautiful.” And slowly he added: