"Then cries the sycamore, 'Hail and rain have no power against me,
nor can the fiercest sun penetrate beyond my outside fringe;
"'The man who impiously raises his hand against me falls by his
own stroke and weapon.
"'Can there be a greater or a more powerful than this one?
Assuredly, I am Buddha; let all things obey me.'
"Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves,
'The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha.
Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.'
"In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to
raise his head from the lap of the Phoenix Goddess, he thrusts
forth a stone which lies by his foot.
"Saying, 'A god's present for a god. Take it carefully, O
presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.'
"The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain. 'They
asked for my messenger,' said the Pure One, turning again to
repose.
"Lo, /he comes/!"
With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were
collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His
hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to
the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a
wolf-haunted camp.
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