Startled by the sudden roar of a lion, the deer leapt in fright to the riverbank. Swept away by the swift current and engulfed by the surging waves, the deer was carried off, suffering the pain of miscarriage as her body was tossed high above the waters. Witnessing the deer—now lost, distressed, and alone—the royal ascetic was deeply moved by her plight. Day by day, the king began to care for the orphaned young fawn. He wandered the outskirts of his hermitage, gathering grass from the thickets to nourish the gentle creature. Each morning, he would venture far in search of food, returning to the hermitage by evening. The deer, sometimes wandering near and sometimes far, became the focus of his affection. Having abandoned his kingdom, his sons, and all his relatives, the king’s heart was devoted solely to the deer. He often wondered anxiously: had a wolf devoured the deer? Had it been struck down by tigers? Or had a lion killed it? Yet, whenever he found the deer, his face would brighten with joy and affection, and he would remain lovingly by its side. As time passed, the king’s life drew to its close. At that moment, as he gazed upon the deer, he surrendered his life. Because he remembered his previous birth, his mind was agitated by worldly concerns, O best of twice-born. In that place, sustaining himself with dry grass and leaves, the king cast off his body and was reborn as a twice-born who remembered his former existence. Endowed with all knowledge and understanding the true meaning of all the scriptures, he attained wisdom through his own self, O great sage, and knew both the beginning and the end. Though he underwent initiation, he did not recite the teachings spoken by his teacher. Even when addressed repeatedly, he spoke only a few dull words. His body was misshapen, his garments soiled, and he lived in obscurity. For honor brings great loss to the power of yoga; therefore, a yogi should act without corrupting the dharma of the virtuous. Reflecting deeply on the words of Hiranyagarbha, the great-minded one lived simply, eating coarse grain cakes, vegetables, wild fruits, and seeds. When his father passed away, he remained among brothers, cousins, and relatives. His limbs were rough and swollen, and he acted sluggishly in his tasks. Such a person, lacking proper refinement, behaved in a manner unbefitting a Brahmin. At last, the king, mounted on a palanquin, resolved to depart, O Brahmin. He pondered, 'What is the highest good in this world, which is mostly full of suffering for people?' He carried the palanquin himself, prompted by the words of the attendant. The Brahmin, who was the sole vessel of all knowledge, was seized by the palanquin-bearer. He moved with sluggish gait, only glancing for a moment. The king observed the uneven movement of the palanquin and laughed, seeing its instability again. The palanquin-bearers remarked, 'He is proceeding, but not swiftly.' They questioned, 'Why do you not endure the effort? You are not stout, nor do you appear strong.' The Brahmin replied, 'I am not tired, nor is there any strain; there is no other carrier, O king.' Indeed, fatigue and burden in carrying arise for embodied beings, but to say one is strong or weak is only a subsequent distinction.