And shrinking in his very soul, he rose, looking down upon them with horror, and drawing his feet and garments from the contact went forth treading quietly and ascended to the roof of the House of the Garden to look out into the night. Dead silent was it as he turned to the eastern horizon, the air breathless as though the Universe waited in suspense to know what he would do. But he, standing alone in the night, joined the ten fingers of his hands, and rendered homage to all the Enlightened who had preceded him, exalting and uniting his purpose to theirs who had opened the way which the eternities shall not close. And even as he joined his hands he perceived that the bright star Pushya which had shone upon his birth was rising in the sky, and he knew that his hour was upon him. Then turning he descended, led by human anguish and longing to see once more his young child and its mother, for in the very deeps of his heart those lives were rooted, but, lest resolution should waver, he went first to the doorway where slept Channa the charioteer, wrapped in his white garment, and even as the Prince stooped above him, this man sprang to his feet, alert and faithful, saluting his Prince,—and in dim lamplight each looked into the eyes of the other. And Siddhartha said: “O faithful! The blessing that is upon me has this night touched perfection. Bring out my noble white horse, for my life here is done and I depart.” But Channa stood perfectly silent staring in his face as one bereft of purpose, and once more Siddhartha spoke. “What must be, must. I thirst and long for a draught of the Fountain of Sweet Dew. Delay no more. Saddle white Kantaka. It is an order.” And Channa obeyed. So the Prince entered the little marble chamber where on her golden bed lay the Princess, drowned in sweet sleep, clasping the child in her arms, unconscious of the grief approaching. And it appeared to Siddhartha that the cold air of his sorrow must rouse her, but it did not. She slept and smiled, rapt in a dream of content. And garlands of flowers hung about the chamber mingling their perfumes with the pure air of night breathed through marble lattices, and all this was home and his, and for the last time he looked upon it. And so great a desolation fell upon him that twice he stretched his empty arms to clasp the child in all its rosy warmth and dearness, and twice they fell because he feared to wake Yashodara from her last dream of joy. So he stood, enduring, looking upon them as a man who faces death and for a while he stayed, with thoughts that cannot be told, nor should that veil be lifted. But when the end was come and he could endure no more, he stooped above them until his breath mingled with theirs, and turned away leaving them sleeping. Then, passing through the quiet house, he came to the doorway where stood white Kantaka, and Channa held him pale as death.