The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva’s ferry, when little Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest.  She, Kamala herself, had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested.  But suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.

Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people, and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to go any further.  But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for help, until the sound reached Vasudeva’s ears, who stood at the ferry.  Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, were Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire.  He looked up and first saw the boy’s face, which wondrously reminded him of something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten.  Then he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious in the ferryman’s arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in his chest.

Kamala’s wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body was swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion.  Her consciousness returned, she lay on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut and bent over her stood Siddhartha, who used to love her so much.  It seemed like a dream to her; with a smile, she looked at her friend’s face; just slowly she, realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy.

“He’s with you, don’t worry,” said Siddhartha.

Kamala looked into his eyes.  She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed by the poison.  “You’ve become old, my dear,” she said, “you’ve become gray.  But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden.  You are much more like him, than you were like him at that time when you had left me and Kamaswami.  In the eyes, you’re like him, Siddhartha.  Alas, I have also grown old, old—­could you still recognise me?”

Siddhartha smiled:  “Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear.”

Kamala pointed to her boy and said:  “Did you recognise him as well?  He is your son.”

Her eyes became confused and fell shut.  The boy wept, Siddhartha took him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of the child’s face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself.  Slowly, with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood, the words came flowing to him.  And with that singsong, the boy became calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep.  Siddhartha placed him on Vasudeva’s bed.  Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked rice.  Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.