And as he came through the streets, his horses pacing gently, the people swayed toward him and a whisper of awe and delight ran through them like the breathing of a breeze that blows the blossoms in passing.
Looking upon them his heart exulted with joy and kindness, for he thought—“This is my city of delight. These are my people, and it shall eternally be my bliss to do them good. Look at the strong fathers holding up their little sweet children to see their Prince. Their hearts are full of love even as my own. Look at the lovely mothers with their babes in warm bosoms—only less fair than Yashodara, and full of love and gentleness. And the glorious young men straight and tall, and the antelope-eyed girls with silken hair braided with blossoms. The Gods know it is a happy world with all these noble creatures in it, and my sick dreams of I know not what are dispersed in this bliss and the great joy of my people.”
And he saluted with his hands, smiling right and left that none might be forgotten, and sometimes from the chariot he took an armful of flowers and tossed them lightly among the crowd and they were gathered up with delight and pressed to eager lips and brows because they had touched the Prince’s hand. So he went through the city, marvelling why his father had forbidden it hitherto. And as he flung his last handful of flowers the appointed moment struck—predestined by the Rulers,—and across the way of the chariot staggered an old, old man, and the stately stallions arched white necks and tossed their heads in disdain at this revolting sight, for they too had beheld nothing but loveliness until that moment.
And because the commands of the Maharaja were stern it is said that this figure was no mortal man but a divinity hidden in flesh whom none could let or hinder and that the myriad people of Kapila saw nothing of this—but two saw clearly—the Prince and the charioteer, Channa. And how this may be I cannot tell. Thus have I heard.
And the aged man with tattered white hair depending from his bleached and bony head like lichen from a stricken tree, supporting his painful steps on a stick, weak, imbecile, skinny jaw fallen disclosing toothless gums, eyes red and bleared, without lashes, and moisture oozing from them, drawing oppressed and painful breath and terror-stricken amidst the crowds, tottered across the flowery way and sank, heaped and huddled beside the chariot, casting a look of terror upon the radiant Prince, and mumbling and muttering what none could hear, his head shaking like a leaf in wind. And it was as if darkness and terror obliterated the sun and all the crowded people bowed forward to see the stopping of the chariot, breathlessly remembering the Maharaja’s commands, but none stirred in his place and even the children were dumb. And yet they had seen nothing but the face of the Prince with a shadow fallen upon it. And the Prince laid his hand on the reins and the horses stopped with drooped crests, and shaken with horror he cried aloud to the charioteer:
“Channa, what is it? What is this man? If indeed man it be.”
And the old man crouched there, muttering, and great fear held Channa silent, and again the Prince cried aloud:
“What is it? What is it?”
And again the crowd sighed like the first stirring of winter answer from Channa’s lips where he stood, bowed over the golden reins grasped in his hand.
“Prince, this is an old man. This is old age.” And a long sighing sob commoved the crowded people as though their doom were pronounced, when they heard.