The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of a Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His age was about seven or eight.
The king said: "I will marry my daughter to him."
Who can interfere with a king's command? At once the boy was called, and the marriage garlands were exchanged between him and the princess.
At this point I came up close to my wise Grannie and asked her eagerly: "What then?"
In the bottom of my heart there was a devout wish to substitute myself for that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The night was resonant with the patter of rain. The earthen lamp by my bedside was burning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she told the story. And all these things served to create in a corner of my credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the princess, beautiful as the Goddess of Grace. She had a band on her hair and gold earrings in her ears, had a necklace and bracelets of gold, and a golden
