King (listening).  No naughtiness could feel at home in this spot.  Who draws such a rebuke upon himself? (He looks towards the sound.  In surprise.) It is a child, but no child in strength.  And two hermit-women are trying to control him.

  He drags a struggling lion cub,
  The lioness’ milk half-sucked, half-missed,
  Towzles his mane, and tries to drub
  Him tame with small, imperious fist.

(Enter a small boy, as described, and two hermit-women.)

Boy.  Open your mouth, cub.  I want to count your teeth.

First woman.  Naughty boy, why do you torment our pets?  They are like children to us.  Your energy seems to take the form of striking something.  No wonder the hermits call you All-tamer.

King.  Why should my heart go out to this boy as if he were my own son? (He reflects.) No doubt my childless state makes me sentimental.

Second woman.  The lioness will spring at you if you don’t let her baby go.

Boy (smiling).  Oh, I’m dreadfully scared. (He bites his lip.)

King (in surprise).

  The boy is seed of fire
  Which, when it grows, will burn;
  A tiny spark that soon
  To awful flame may turn.

First woman.  Let the little lion go, dear.  I will give you another plaything.

Boy.  Where is it?  Give it to me. (He stretches out his hand.)

King (looking at the hand.) He has one of the imperial birthmarks!  For

  Between the eager fingers grow
  The close-knit webs together drawn,
  Like some lone lily opening slow
  To meet the kindling blush of dawn.

Second woman.  Suvrata, we can’t make him stop by talking.  Go.  In my cottage you will find a painted clay peacock that belongs to the hermit-boy Mankanaka.  Bring him that.

First woman.  I will. (Exit.) Boy.  Meanwhile I’ll play with this one.

Hermit-woman (looks and laughs).  Let him go.

King.  My heart goes out to this wilful child. (Sighing.)

  They show their little buds of teeth
  In peals of causeless laughter;
  They hide their trustful heads beneath
  Your heart.  And stumbling after
  Come sweet, unmeaning sounds that sing
  To you.  The father warms
  And loves the very dirt they bring
  Upon their little forms.

Hermit-woman (shaking her finger).  Won’t you mind me? (She looks about.) Which one of the hermit-boys is here? (She sees the king.) Oh, sir, please come here and free this lion cub.  The little rascal is tormenting him, and I can’t make him let go.

King.  Very well. (He approaches, smiling.) O little son of a great sage!

  Your conduct in this place apart,
  Is most unfit;
  ’Twould grieve your father’s pious heart
  And trouble it.