And as they neared the street all a-flutter with banners and flowers and perfumes and thronged with silent gazing thousands again a divinity masked his divinity in tortured flesh (thus it is told), and by the way was seen a sick man struggling for life in a losing battle.
His body was swollen and disfigured, his hollow cheeks blazed with fever and in his dying eyes fear and agony contended. Scarce could he drag himself along, moaning and crying for pity, the hot tears pouring and searing his cheeks as they ran. And seeing it, the Prince set his hands on the reins and checked the horses and cried aloud.
“What is this horror?”
So the charioteer, Channa, with fear tearing at his vitals, yet compelled by a force beyond all resistance to no other than the truth, answered:
“Prince, it is a sick man. The four elements are all confused and disordered, he is worn, feeble, and strengthless, tortured in body and mind, dependent upon the mercy of men whose own evil day is but postponed.”
And a shudder ran through the crowd as the Prince questioned him, shrinking back as one in mortal fear.
“And this too is the common doom?”
“Prince, none escape it.”
“And the few poor years that old age leaves us are broken into misery like this?”
“Prince, so it is.”