And it is told that when midnight drew veils of darkness over earth and sky there came Influences noiseless—winged as the white moth that haunts the evenings of summer, and that as these came, thought died from the soul of Siddhartha and it became Perception,—and he saw and heard inwardly while the women about him lay drunk with heavy sleep. Now along the night crept a strange music, thin at first and faint as the far-off falling of rain, but drawing nearer, nearer, sweeter than all harps and lutes struck with earthly hands, and at first no words could be distinguished but only an unearthly sweetness, soul-dividing, purer than the crystal purity of ice on the highest summits of the mountains that speak face to face with heaven. And at last, the clear sounds glided into clear words, and the Prince heard the mystic music, whether within or without his soul who shall say? But it fell from on high like white flakes of snow falling cold and passionless and drowning desire. “Mighty One, O Mighty One. There is a Way—a Way. The wise of old have trodden it. Rise now and go. Finding the Light, Share it with men. Grant unto all To drink in peace The water of Righteousness. Thou who in past lives Didst agonize for men, Nothing withholding, Again go forth, Conqueror of sorrow.” And as he listened in tranced silence once more the clear words shaped themselves from the heart of silence. “Light of the world, Remember past lives. Griefs without end, Revilings and prisons, Deaths many and cruel. These hast Thou borne, Loving and patiently, Shedding forgiveness On those who slew thee. Go forth again, Riding to Victory.” And when he heard and had understood this music, the Prince rose from sleep and looked about him in the faint light of the lamps, with thoughts new and awful stirring in his breast—thoughts beyond words, unutterable. And the women slept in disorder about him, heavily lolling as though drunk with wine, their faces wried and twisted, mouths awry, running over with saliva, limbs flung into coarse attitudes, sprawling, couchant like animals, with pendant lips and breasts, laughing foolishly at worthless dreams, hidden blemishes visible, abandoned to the disclosures of careless sleep, ungainly, revolting, as though the truth had suddenly touched them with clear ray disclosing them as they were. And the Prince said slowly: “It is a graveyard, and these are the corpses.”