it to the sage.

_The two hermits_. Then we will go on our way. (_Exit hermit with
pupil_.)

_King_. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will
purify us.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits motion again_.)

_King_ (_looking about_). One would know, without being told, that
this is the precinct of a pious grove.

_Charioteer_. How so? _King_. Do you not see? Why, here

Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
That do not run away as we draw near;
And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.

Besides,

The roots of trees are washed by many a stream
That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.

_Charioteer_. It is all true.