“Be silent, for this I will not have! The men of my race are Kshatriyas, warriors. The Brahman, the ascetic, the hermit, have their sacred uses, and may the guardian Gods forbid that I should disparage their merit—but my son is my son and a warrior, and if the signs are great, it is a warrior’s greatness I claim for him, for in my family is no other known or considered.” But still the dream-readers lingered in doubt. “Great sir, there is more to be told, strange and very wonderful. Two ways lie before the child to be, and in which he will walk we cannot say. If, when he is of age to judge, he beholds a sick man, an old man, a dead man, and a holy monk, then great and wide is his kingdom but not of this world. And if he see not these signs, he shall be a king of the earth, magnificent in riches, glory and power. Therefore it is in the hand of his father to choose what he shall see or not see. The dream is read.” “Gladly and gloriously is it read!” shouted the Maharaja. “No such sights shall my son see. Leave spiritual things to spiritual men, for he shall reign for ever and ever!” And bowing, with minds perplexed, the dream-readers gathered up their calculations and departed. And in the city they spread their news, and there was scarcely a man but thought and rejoiced with the Maharaja, commending him in that he chose rather to have a son to fight beside him and ride terribly at his bridle rein than an ascetic in the woods, with matted hair and clawed hands, to pray for his victories——“So would we all choose, like men!” they said. And very joyful was the city. But Maya the Great Lady, saying little, went her way in peace, strong and calm of purpose as our general mother the earth, pure within and without as the white lotus; and surrounding herself with a great tranquillity, she floated on its surface as a water-lily, rooted in the life-giving bosom of earth, turning an adoring face to the purities of the heavens and absorbing their radiance, until her heart was pure gold and her body white as the ivory of the flower that is a prayer embodied and throne of all the Gods. And if she passed through the city, the women and children strewed flowers before her as before a goddess borne in procession, and when the benediction of her eyes fell on them, they prostrated themselves. And always her sister, Prajapati, went beside her, guarding her with her own hands, treasuring her as a thing already enskied and sainted, a fear in her heart clasping hands with joy. And the Maharaja Suddhodana would stride into the pavilion, saying in his great voice: “Wife, how goes it? For the time passes onward, and soon the spring shall be here again, and with it our boy. This day have the farmers given me a little plough, made of red cedarwood, banded with ivory, and when he can walk and talk he shall plough his furrow like a man!” And she, smiling, answered: