Hermit-woman (shaking her finger). Won't you mind me? (She looks about.) Which one of the hermit-boys is here? (She sees the king.) Oh, sir, please come here and free this lion cub. The little rascal is tormenting him, and I can't make him let go.
King. Very well. (He approaches, smiling.) O little son of a great sage!
Your conduct in this place apart,
Is most unfit;
'Twould grieve your father's pious heart
And trouble it.To animals he is as good
As good can be;
You spoil it, like a black snake's brood
In sandal tree.
Hermit-woman. But, sir, he is not the son of a hermit.
King. So it would seem, both from his looks and his actions. But in this spot, I had no suspicion of anything else. (He loosens the boy's hold on the cub, and touching him, says to himself.)
It makes me thrill to touch the boy,
The stranger's son, to me unknown;
What measureless content must fill
The man who calls the child his own!
Hermit-woman (looking at the two). Wonderful! wonderful!
King. Why do you say that, mother? Hermit-woman. I am astonished to see how much the boy looks like you, sir. You are not related. Besides, he is a perverse little creature and he does not know you. Yet he takes no dislike to you.
King (caressing the boy). Mother, if he is not the son of a hermit, what is his family?
Hermit-woman. The family of Puru.