reach in the orchard wall and entered. And now I must force my
way into the inner court as well.

Yes, let men call it vulgar, if they will,
The trade that thrives while sleeps the sleepyhead;
Yes, knavery, not bravery, call it still,
To overreach confiding folk a-bed.

P. 86.9]

Far better blame and hissing, fairly won.
Than the pay of genuflecting underlings;
This antique path was trod by Drona's son,
Who slew the sleeping, unsuspecting kings. 11

But where shall I make the breach?

Where is the spot which falling drops decayed?
For each betraying sound is deadened there.
No yawning breach should in the walls be made,
So treatises on robbery declare.
Where does the palace crumble? Where the place
That niter-eaten bricks false soundness wear?
Where shall I 'scape the sight of woman's face?
Fulfilment of my wishes waits me there. 12

[_He feels the wall._] Here is a spot weakened by constant sun and
sprinkling and eaten by saltpeter rot. And here is a pile of dirt
thrown up by a mouse. Now heaven be praised! My venture prospers.
This is the first sign of success for Skanda's[46] sons. Now first
of all, how shall I make the breach? The blessed Bearer of the
Golden Lance[47] has prescribed four varieties of breach, thus: if
the bricks are baked, pull them out; if they are unbaked, cut
them; if they are made of earth, wet them; if they are made of
wood, split them. Here we have baked bricks; ergo, pull out the
bricks.

Now what shall be the shape I give the breach?
A "lotus," "cistern," "crescent moon," or "sun"?
"Oblong," or "cross," or "bulging pot"? for each
The treatises permit. Which one? which one?
And where shall I display my sovereign skill,
That in the morning men may wonder still? 13

In this wall of baked bricks, the "bulging pot" would be effective. I
will make that.

[47.16. S.

At other walls that I have pierced by night,
And at my less successful ventures too,
The crowd of neighbors gazed by morning light,
Assigning praise or blame, as was my due. 14

Praise to the boon-conferring god, to Skanda of immortal youth!
Praise to him, the Bearer of the Golden Lance, the Brahman's
god, the pious! Praise to him, the Child of the Sun! Praise to him,
the teacher of magic, whose first pupil I am! For he