“Great my lord, it is an order. I dare not speak.”
“My order stands higher. Speak.”
She trembled as she stood, with fear and weakness.
“My lord, it is the sickness. Two years ago my sister Vijaya was a dancer. Yourself has commended her. But the cruel cough came and tore her breast, and at last she could scarcely lift her little feet, and then they sent her secretly away, and she spat blood and the cough devoured her, and she died. And now it has taken me also and the blood came from my mouth last night, and to-morrow I go. But O I beseech your greatness to hide my words, for it is forbidden that any grief should soil the air about your noble presence.”
“But when you rest the cough will decline and you will be glad again, my sister.”
“Great Prince, I shall die. For this there is no cure.”
There was a long silence.
“And do you fear this?”
“My lord, I fear very terribly—but there is no help. What must be, must. And I am now too weary to dance, and it is better I die for I am a burden and a distress to my mother now I am worth no more money, and she is poor. There is scarce bread to eat.”
Then the blood poured into the pale face of Siddhartha for shame and horror, and he said: