Scarce had the fair one from my presence passed,
When, suddenly, without apparent cause,
She stopped, and counterfeiting pain, exclaimed,
"My foot is wounded by this prickly grass."
Then glancing at me tenderly, she feigned
Another charming pretext for delay,
Pretending that a bush had caught her robe,
And turned as if to disentangle it.
MÁTHAVYA.—I trust you have laid in a good stock of provisions, for I see you intend making this consecrated grove your game-preserve, and will be roaming here in quest of sport for some time to come.
KING.—You must know, my good fellow, that I have been recognized by some of the inmates of the hermitage. Now I want the assistance of your fertile invention, in devising some excuse for going there again.
MÁTHAVYA.—There is but one expedient that I can suggest. You are the King, are you not?
KING.—What then?
MÁTHAVYA.—Say you have come for the sixth part of their grain, which they owe you for tribute.
KING.—No, no, foolish man; these hermits pay me a very different kind of tribute, which I value more than heaps of gold or jewels; observe,
The tribute which my other subjects bring
Must moulder into dust, but holy men
Present me with a portion of the fruits
Of penitential services and prayers—
A precious and imperishable gift.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—We are fortunate; here is the object of our search.
KING [listening],—Surely those must be the voices of hermits, to judge by their deep tones.