from the royal palace, though the city was bedecked with flowers and
gay flags, and every painful object removed from sight when the young
Prince Siḍḍārtha visited it, yet the decrees of destiny were
not to be baffled, the "voices of the spirits," the "wandering winds"
and the ḍevas, whispered the truth of human sorrows into his
listening ear, and when the appointed hour arrived, the Suḍḍha
DÌ£evas threw the spell of slumber over the household, steeped in
profound lethargy the sentinels (as we are told was done by an angel
to the gaolers of Peter's prison), rolled back the triple gates of
bronze, strewed the sweet moghra-flowers thickly beneath his horse's
feet to muffle every sound, and he was free. Free? Yes--to resign
every earthly comfort, every sensuous enjoyment, the sweets of royal
power, the homage of a Court, the delights of domestic life: gems, the
glitter of gold: rich stuffs, rich food, soft beds: the songs of
trained musicians, and of birds kept prisoners in gay cages, the
murmur of perfumed waters plashing in marble basins, the delicious
shade of trees in gardens where art had contrived to make nature even
lovelier than herself. He leaps from his saddle when at a safe
distance from the palace, flings the jewelled rein to his faithful
groom, Channa, cuts off his flowing locks, gives his rich costume to a
hunter in exchange for his own, plunges into the jungle, and is free:

To tread its paths with patient, stainless feet,
Making its dusty bed, its loneliest wastes
My dwelling, and its meanest things my mates:
Clad in no prouder garb than outcasts wear,
Fed with no meals save what the charitable
Give of their will, sheltered by no more pomp,
Than the dim cave lends or the jungle-bush.
This will I do because the woeful cry