ox-goad and cut off the tip of it in order to use it as a staff; and a gourd-bottle, such as the gardeners and field-workers carry, I hung over my shoulder.
At the well in the courtyard I filled the gourd.
Upon which, the house-steward approached me.
"Angulimala and his robbers will not come now, O Master! will they?"
"No, Kolita, they will not come now."
"But how, O Master—dost thou go abroad already?"
"Even so, Kolita, I go abroad, and of that very matter I desired to speak with thee. For I go the way now, that men call the way of the noblest birds of passage. From this way, however, Kolita, there is, for one who perseveres in it, no return—no return to this world after death, how much less to this house during life. But the house I give into thy care, for thou hast been faithful unto death. Administer house and fortune until my son attains to manhood. Give my love to my father and my wives, and—farewell!"
After I had thus spoken and freed my hand from the good Kolita, who covered it with kisses and tears, I walked towards the gate, and at sight of the gate-post, against which the figure of the ascetic had leaned, I thought: "If its likeness to Angulimala was but a vision, then have I read the vision aright!"
Quickly, and without looking back, I went through the suburb with its gardens; and before me there lay, stretched out in the first grey shimmer of the dawn, as if it went on and ever on to all eternity, the desolate far-reaching country road.
Thus, O Reverend One, did I adopt the life of the homeless.
