The two hermits. Then we will go on our way. (Exit hermit with pupil.)
King. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will purify us.
Charioteer. Yes, your Majesty. (He counterfeits motion again.)
King (looking about). One would know, without being told, that this is the precinct of a pious grove.
Charioteer. How so?
King. Do you not see? Why, here
Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
That do not run away as we draw near;
And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.
Besides,
The roots of trees are washed by many a stream
That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.
Charioteer. It is all true.