The crumbling old door of the cell was partly open; no light was visible; and, as Dhamaphat stood there hesitating whether he would enter, a low, faint, tremulous sound came out of the darkness within, and floated upward on the silence of night like the voice of some celestial chorister. It was the Buddhist's evening hymn, or chant, and the familiar words—
"Nama Buddsa phakava thouraha,
Sama Boodhsa thatsa Phutthang
Purisa thamma sârâthi
Sangkhang saranang ga cha mi," etc.,
freely translated,
"O thou, who art thyself the light,
Boundless in knowledge, beautiful as day,
Irradiate my heart, my life, my night,
Nor let me ever from thy presence stray!"—
touched his better nature and melted his heart. He stooped forward, and listened to it lovingly as it rose higher and higher, growing more and more exultant till it caught his trembling spirit, and bore it away beyond the confines of this world face to face with a Divine Ineffable Presence full of harmony and beauty.
His anger and his grief were forgotten.
So Dhamaphat turned his face to the sky. One moment he stood erect in an absolute halo of light, the next he was combatting darkly with the blind shadows of love and hate, cause and effect, merit and demerit, the endless evolutions of the "wheel" of an irresistible law into which all things are cast.
He felt something cold pass over his hand; he started, and became aware that the good priest had finished his devotions. He tapped gently, and was told to enter, which he did hesitatingly.
In the middle of the cell sat the priest, who seemed, even in his old age, full of the vigor of manhood; his legs were crossed, his arms folded, and his eyes cast down; he did not even raise them at the entrance of the young man; he was in that semi-stupor commonly called contemplation. In one corner a narrow plank, quite bare, and a wooden pillow served for his bed; beside it an old fan, a pot for water, an earthen vessel for rice, some rude old instruments and books; beyond these the cell was bare, damp, cold, slimy, and unhealthy. It was without any light, save where the moonlight fell in ghastly lights and shadows through the slits in the wall.
"My father," said the young man, as he reverently prostrated himself before the priest, who half opened his dull eyes, and said: "S'amana phinong" (peace, brother).