Matali. O King, this is Gold Peak, the mountain of the fairy centaurs. Here it is that ascetics most fully attain to magic powers. See!
The ancient sage, Marichi's son,
Child of the Uncreated One,
Father of superhuman life,
Dwells here austerely with his wife.
King (reverently). I must not neglect the happy chance. I cannot go farther until I have walked humbly about the holy one.
Matali. It is a worthy thought, O King. (The chariot descends.) We have come down to earth.
King (astonished). Matali,
The wheels are mute on whirling rim;
Unstirred, the dust is lying there;
We do not bump the earth, but skim:
Still, still we seem to fly through air.
Matali. Such is the glory of the chariot which obeys you and Indra.
King. In which direction lies the hermitage of Marichi's son?
Matali (pointing). See!
Where stands the hermit, horridly austere,
Whom clinging vines are choking, tough and sore;
Half-buried in an ant-hill that has grown
About him, standing post-like and alone;
Sun-staring with dim eyes that know no rest,
The dead skin of a serpent on his breast:
So long he stood unmoved, insensate there
That birds build nests within his mat of hair.