informed them that they were just about to carry the wounded pilgrim on a stretcher—which was then being fetched—to the Mango Grove, to the Buddha, in order to fulfil the man's overwhelming desire; could one of the younger monks perhaps return with them to show them the shortest way to the spot where the Master was at that moment to be found?
"The Master," answered the old man with the severe face, "is not in the Mango Grove, and we ourselves don't know where he is."
At the answer a despairing groan burst from Kamanita's wounded breast.
"But he certainly cannot be far from here," added the younger. "The Master sent the company of monks on ahead yesterday and pursued his journey alone. He arrived late, I expect, and sought quarters somewhere, probably in the suburbs. We are now on the way to look for him."
"Oh, seek diligently, find him," cried Kamanita.
"Even if we knew where the Master is, it would not be possible to carry this wounded man thither," said the stern monk. "For the shaking of the stretcher would soon render his condition so much worse that, even if he survived it, he would arrive in a dying condition, with a mind incapable of apprehending the words of the Master. Let him, however, take care of himself now, be treated by an experienced surgeon, and carefully tended, and there is always the Hope that he may so far recover strength as to be able to listen to the Master's words.
Kamanita, however, pointed impatiently to the stretcher—
"No time—dying—take me with you—see him—touch—die happy—with you—hurry!"
Shrugging his shoulders the monk turned to the younger brethren—
