The people greeted the Acharya with cheers and shouts. A path was cleared for him. The Acharya stepped down from the chariot. The guard of the inn went down on his knees to salute him.

‘Where is the dancing girl who came to the inn?’ the Acharya asked in a solemn voice. ‘Guard, show the way.’

The guard, escorting the Acharya, proceeded towards the veranda. The entire crowd stood motionless like wooden statues, but the bhikshu and the traveller from Mathurapuri, seeing their chance, followed the Acharya.

The four torch-bearers took their positions in the corners of the room, which was now flooded with light. Divya, dressed in her costume of a celestial handmaiden, was sitting on the floor, her back resting against the wall. She lifted her eyes and looked at the visitors, but continued to sit motionless. The crowd, peeping through the door, stood in silent awe.

In a voice devoid of any emotion, Divya asked the Acharya, ‘What further orders await this unfortunate creature?’

Sitting down on the mat spread by the guard, the Acharya said, ‘Devi, your place is not that of a dancer–courtesan. You are of high birth. Your place is that of the mistress of a noble family. I am here to offer you the place of the First Lady in the house of the Acharyas. Devi, oblige me by accepting the offer.’

Her eyes fixed steadily on the face of the Acharya, Divya replied, ‘Acharya, the place of the mistress and of the First Lady of a noble family is a rare honour. This destitute woman bows her head before the offer of such a high position. But Acharya, the mistress of a noble family is not a free woman; she is not independent like a disreputable courtesan. Learned Acharya, the honour given to the noble bride, the respect given to the noble matron, and the authority given to the First Lady are there because of the man who gives her protection. It is not an honour due to the woman; it is an honour due to the powerful man who owns her. Arya, this honour and respect can be obtained by a woman only by willingly surrendering her inner self.’

After a few moments silence, she continued, ‘Learned sir, what is left of the woman who has given up her self? The Acharya must forgive this humble servant. Even though destitute, she wishes to live independently. By losing her self she cannot remain alive.’

Realizing that his great authority would carry no weight, the Acharya sat silent looking at the inscrutable face of Divya.

Just then, the bhikshu approached the seat of the Acharya, and said, ‘Devi, I, Bhikshu Prithusen, a devotee of the Buddha, am here to receive into the bosom of the Buddha the woman oppressed by society.’

Divya’s eyes opened wide as she heard and recognized the voice of the russet-robed bhikshu standing in front of her. A shudder ran through her body. She heaved a deep sigh and sat motionless looking at the face of the bhikshu.