"This poor man holds the Supremely Perfect One to be an image, at whose touch one's sins are forgiven."
"He has gained faith in the Perfect One, Sariputta, even if he lacks the deeper understanding," said the other, and bent over the wounded man to ascertain what strength he still had; "perhaps we might risk it after all. I am sorry for the poor fellow, and I believe we could do nothing better for him than make the attempt."
A grateful look from the pilgrim rewarded him for his advocacy.
"As thou wilt, Ananda," answered Sariputta kindly.
At this moment there came striding past, from the direction in which Kamanita had also come, a potter who carried on his head a basket with all kinds of potter's wares. When he perceived the pilgrim Kamanita, whom they had just laid with great care, though not without causing him violent pain, upon the stretcher, he stopped, stricken with horror, and so suddenly that the dishes, piled one above another, came crashing down and were broken to pieces.
"God in heaven! what has happened here? That is the pious pilgrim who honoured my hall by spending the night there, in the company of a monk who wore a robe like that of these reverend men."
"Was that monk an aged man and of lofty stature?" asked Sariputta.
"He was, reverend sir—and he seemed to me to be not unlike thyself."
Then the monks knew that they did not need to seek longer—that the Master was in the house of the potter. For "the disciple who resembles the Master," was the description by which Sariputta was generally known.
"Is it possible?" said Ananda, glancing up from the
