And the Prince closing his eyes to shut out the horror, and clenching his palms said:
“What is this?”
And Channa not daring to look in his face, answered very low: bowed under the weight of words he was compelled to utter.
“This is a dead man, all his powers of body destroyed, life departed, his heart without thought, his intellect dispersed. His spirit is fled, his body withered, stretched out like a dead log, taken from all who loved him. And mourning they carry him forth to burn and obliterate him, for they—even they—will have no more of his presence now become loathsome, but cast him from them utterly. And this is Death.”
And into his clenched hands he murmured:
“Is this also the common lot?”
And the charioteer replied, with hidden face:
“Prince, so it is. He who begins his life must end it. And thus. For death may at any moment seize us and carry us away into darkness.”
Then Siddhartha sank down in the chariot, his soul warring with his body, catching at the leaning-board for support, hiding his face from the light of day as the dead man was borne on before him and wailing and lamentation filled the air.
And into his clenched hands he murmured: