GRANDFATHER.
Fool, O precious ass that you are! My King a waxen doll, and you to protect him!
KUMBHA.
But seriously, Grandpa, he is a superb god, a miracle of beauty: I do not find a single other figure in this vast assembly that can stand beside his peerless loveliness.
GRANDFATHER.
If my King chose to make himself shown, your eyes would not have noticed him. He would not stand out like that amongst others—he is one of the people, he mingles with the common populace.
KUMBHA.
But did I not tell you I saw his banner?
GRANDFATHER.
What did you see displayed on his banner?
KUMBHA.
It had a red Kimshuk flower painted on it—the bright and glittering scarlet dazzled my eyes.
GRANDFATHER.
My King has a thunderbolt within a lotus painted on his flag.
KUMBHA.
But every one is saying, the King is out in this festival: every one.
GRANDFATHER.
Why, so he is, of course: but he has no heralds, no army, no retinue, no music bands or lights to accompany him.
KUMBHA.
So none could recognise him in his incognito, it seems.