answered the boy, "I know not of what clan I am. I
shall go and ask my mother."

Thus saying, Satyakama took leave, and wading across the
shallow stream, came back to his mother's hut, which stood at the
end of the sandy waste at the edge of the sleeping village.

The lamp burnt dimly in the room, and the mother stood at the
door in the dark waiting for her son's return.

She clasped him to her bosom, kissed him on his hair, and asked
him of his errand to the master.

"What is the name of my father, dear mother?" asked the boy.

"It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest
wisdom, said Lord Guatama to me."

The woman lowered her eyes, and spoke in a whisper.

"In my youth I was poor and had many masters. Thou didst come to
thy mother Jabala's arms, my darling, who had no husband."

The early rays of the sun glistened on the tree-tops of the
forest hermitage.

The students, with their tangled hair still wet with their
morning bath, sat under the ancient tree, before the master.

There came Satyakama.

He bowed low at the feet of the sage, and stood silent.

"Tell me," the great teacher asked him, "of what clan art thou?"

"My lord," he answered, "I know it not. My mother said when I
asked her, 'I had served many masters in my youth, and thou hadst
come to thy mother Jabala's arms, who had no husband.'"

There rose a murmur like the angry hum of bees disturbed in their
hive; and the students muttered at the shameless insolence of
that outcast.

Master Guatama rose from his seat, stretched out his arms, took
the boy to his bosom, and said, "Best of all Brahmins art thou,
my child. Thou hast the noblest heritage of truth."

LXV

May be there is one house in this city where the gate opens for
ever this morning at the touch of the sunrise, where the errand
of the light is fulfilled.

The flowers have opened in hedges and gardens, and may be there
is one heart that has found in them this morning the gift that
has been on its voyage from endless time.

LXVI

Listen, my heart, in his flute is the music of the smell of wild
flowers, of the glistening leaves and gleaming water, of shadows
resonant with bees' wings.

The flute steals his smile from my friend's lips and spreads it
over my life.

LXVII

You always stand alone beyond the stream of my songs.

The waves of my tunes wash your feet but I know not how to reach
them.

This play of mine with you is a play fro