know not how to pay
King's dues."

Then rose Supriya, the mendicant's daughter.

She bowed to all and meekly said, "I will feed the hungry."

"How!" they cried in surprise. "How can you hope to fulfil that
vow?"

"I am the poorest of you all," said Supriya, "that is my
strength. I have my coffer and my store at each of your houses."

XXXII

My king was unknown to me, therefore when he claimed his tribute
I was bold to think I would hide myself leaving my debts unpaid.

I fled and fled behind my day's work and my night's dreams.

But his claims followed me at every breath I drew.

Thus I came to know that I am known to him and no place left
which is mine.

Now I wish to lay my all before his feet, and gain the right to
my place in his kingdom.

XXXIII

When I thought I would mould you, an image from my life for men
to worship, I brought my dust and desires and all my coloured
delusions and dreams.

When I asked you to mould with my life an image from your heart
for you to love, you brought your fire and force, and truth,
loveliness and peace.

XXXIV

"Sire," announced the servant to the King, "the saint Narottam
has never deigned to enter your royal temple.

"He is singing God's praise under the trees by the open road.
The temple is empty of worshippers.

"They flock round him like bees round the white lotus, leaving
the golden jar of honey unheeded."

The King, vexed at heart, went to the spot where Narottam sat on
the grass.

He asked him, "Father, why leave my temple of the golden dome and
sit on the dust outside to preach God's love?"

"Because God is not there in your temple," said Narottam.

The King frowned and said, "Do you know, twenty millions of gold
went to the making of that marvel of art, and it was consecrated
to God with costly rites?"

"Yes, I know it," answered Narottam. "It was in that year when
thousands of your people whose houses had been burned stood
vainly asking for help at your door.

"And God said, 'The poor creature who can give no shelter to his
brothers would build my house!'

"And he took his place with the shelterless under the trees by
the road.

"And that golden bubble is empty of all but hot vapour of pride."

The King cried in anger, "Leave my land."

Calmly said the saint, "Yes, banish me where you have banished my
God."

XXXV

The trumpet lies in the dust.

The wind is weary, the light is dead.

Ah, the evil day!

C