KUMBHA.
Friend Madhav, it isn’t my tongue, it is fate. When the bogus King appeared I never said a word, though that did not prevent my striking at my own feet with all the self-confidence of innocence. And now, when perhaps the real King has come, I simply must blurt out treason. It is fate, my dear friend!
MADHAV.
My faith is, to go on obeying the King—it does not matter whether he is a real one or a pretender. What do we know of Kings that we should judge them! It is like throwing stones in the dark—you are almost sure of hitting your mark. I go on obeying and acknowledging—if it is a real King, well and good: if not, what harm is there?
KUMBHA.
I should not have minded if the stones were nothing better than stones. But they are often precious things: here, as elsewhere, extravagance lands us in poverty, my friend.
MADHAV.
Look! There comes the King! Ah, a King indeed! What a figure, what a face! Whoever saw such beauty—lily-white, creamy-soft! What now, Kumbha? What do you think now?
KUMBHA.
He looks all right—yes, he may be the real King for all I know.
MADHAV.
He looks as if he were moulded and carved for kingship, a figure too exquisite and delicate for the common light of day.
[Enter the “KING”]
MADHAV.
Prosperity and victory attend thee, O King! We have been standing here to have a sight of thee since the early morning. Forget us not, your Majesty, in your favours.
KUMBHA.
The mystery deepens. I will go and call Grandfather.[Goes out.]
[Enter another band of MEN]