The sun had set on the western of the river among the of the forest.  
The boys had brought the cattle home, and sat round the fire to listen to the master, Guatama, when a strange boy came, and greeted him with fruits and flowers, and, bowing low at his feet, in a bird-like voice—“Lord, I have come to thee to be taken into the path of the Truth.
 
“My name is Satyakāma.”
 
“Blessings be on thy head,” said the master.
 
“Of what art thou, my child? It is only fitting for a Brahmin to to the highest wisdom.”
 
“Master,” answered the boy, “I know not of what clan I am. I shall go and ask my mother.”
 
Thus saying, Satyakāma took leave, and across the shallow stream, came back to his mother’s hut, which stood at the end of the sandy waste at the edge of the sleeping village.
 
The lamp burnt dimly in the room, and the mother stood at the door in the dark waiting for her son’s return.
 
She clasped him to her , kissed him on his hair, and asked him of his errand to the master.
 
“What is the name of my father, dear mother?” asked the boy.
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