his royal parents did what they could to possess him with this
belief, but they died before he reached manhood. Behold him then,
a young King in his palace, surrounded with splendour. How should
he withstand the passionate crying of the flesh or believe that
through pleasure comes satiety and the loss of that in the spirit
whereby alone pleasure can be enjoyed? For his gift was that he
could win all hearts. They swarmed round him like hiving bees and
hovered about him like butterflies. Sometimes he brushed them
off. Often he caressed them, and when this happened, each thought
proudly "I am the Royal Favourite. There is none other than me."

Also the Princess delayed who would be the crest-jewel of the
crown, bringing with her all good and the blessing of the High
Gods, and in consequence of all these things the King took such
pleasures as he could, and they were many, not knowing they
darken the inner eye whereby what is royal is known through
disguises.

(Most pitiful to see, beneath the close-shut lids of the man at
the feet of the Dweller in the Heights, tears forced themselves,
as though a corpse dead to all else lived only to anguish. They
flowed like blood-drops upon his face as he lay enduring, and the
voice proceeded.) What was the charm of the King? Was it his
stately height and strength? Or his faithless gayety? Or his
voice, deep and soft as the sitar when it sings of love? His
women said - some one thing, some another, but none of these
ladies were of royal blood, and therefore they knew not.

Now one day, the all-privileged jester of the King, said,
laughing harshly: