KĀDAMBARĪ.

(3) Glory to Vishṇu, who, resolving to strike from afar, with but a moment’s glance from his wrath-inflamed eye stained the breast of his enemy, as if it had burst of itself in terror.

Who is there that fears not the wicked, pitiless in causeless enmity; in whose mouth calumny hard to bear is always ready as the poison of a serpent?

The wicked, like fetters, echo harshly, wound deeply, and leave a scar; while the good, like jewelled anklets, ever charm the mind with sweet sounds.

(4) In a bad man gentle words sink no deeper than the throat, like nectar swallowed by Rāhu. The good man bears them constantly on his heart, as Hari his pure gem.

There was once a Brahman, Kuvera by name, sprung from the race of Vātsyāyana, sung throughout the world for his virtue, a leader of the good: his lotus feet were worshipped by many a Gupta, and he seemed a very portion of Brahma.

(5) On his mouth Sarasvatī ever dwelt: for in it all evil was stilled by the Veda; it had lips purified by sacrificial cake, and a palate bitter with soma, and it was pleasant with smṛiti and çāstra.

In his house frightened boys, as they repeated verses of the Yajur and Sāma Veda, were chidden at every word by caged parrots and mainas, who were thoroughly versed in everything belonging to words.

From him was born Arthapati, a lord of the twice-born, as Hiraṇyagarbha from the world-egg, the moon from the Milky Ocean, or Garuḍa from Vinatā.

He in due course obtained a son, Citrabhānu, who amongst his other noble and glorious sons, all versed in çruti and çāstra, shone as crystal, like Kailāsa among mountains.

The virtues of that noble man, reaching far and gleaming bright as a digit of the moon, yet without its spot, pierced deep even into the hearts of his foes, like the budding claws of Nṛisiṃha (Vishṇu).

The dark smoke of many a sacrifice rose like curls on the brow of the goddesses of the sky; or like shoots of tamāla on the ear of the bride, the Threefold Veda, and only made his own glory shine more bright.

From him was born a son, Bāṇa, when the drops that rose from the fatigue of the soma sacrifice were wiped from his brow by the folded lotus hands of Sarasvatī, and when the seven worlds had been illuminated by the rays of his glory.

By the indwelling of Dharma in his mind, Yama in his wrath, Kuvera in his kindness, Agni in his splendour, Earth in his arm, Lakshmī in his glance, Sarasvatī in his eloquence, (10) the Moon in his face, the Wind in his might, Bṛihaspati in his knowledge, Love in his beauty, the Sun in his glory, he resembled holy Nārāyaṇa, whose nature manifests every form, and who is the very essence of deity. Royal glory came to him once for all, like a woman coming to meet her lover, on the nights of battle stormy with the showers of ichor from the elephants’ temples, and stood by him in the midst of the darkness of thousands of coats of mail, loosened from the doors of the breasts of warriors. She seemed to be drawn irresistibly by his sword, which was uneven in its edge, by reason of the drops of water forced out by the pressure of his strong hand, and which was decked with large pearls clinging to it when he clove the frontal bones of wild elephants. The flame of his majesty burnt day and night, as if it were a fire within his foes’ fair wives, albeit reft of their lords, as if he would destroy the husbands now only enshrined in their hearts.

Such was this king. And she yet afar beholding him, with a hand soft as the petal of a red lotus, and surrounded by a tinkling bracelet, and clasping the bamboo with its end jagged, (21) struck once on the mosaic floor to arouse the king; and at the sound, in a moment the whole assemblage of chiefs turned their eyes from the king to her, like a herd of wild elephants at the falling of the cocoanut. Then the king, with the words, ‘Look yonder,’ to his suite, gazed steadily upon the Caṇḍāla maiden, as she was pointed out by the portress. Before her went a man, whose hair was hoary with age, whose eyes were the colour of the red lotus, whose joints, despite the loss of youth, were firm from incessant labour, whose form, though that of a Mātanga, was not to be despised, and who wore the white raiment meet for a court. Behind her went a Caṇḍāla boy, with locks falling on either shoulder, bearing a cage, the bars of which, though of gold, shone like emerald from the reflection of the parrot’s plumage. (22) She herself seemed by the darkness of her hue to imitate Kṛishṇa when he guilefully assumed a woman’s attire to take away the amṛita seized by the demons. She was, as it were, a doll of sapphire walking alone; and over the blue garment, which reached to her ankle, there fell a veil of red silk, like evening sunshine falling on blue lotuses. The circle of her cheek was whitened by the earring that hung from one ear, like the face of night inlaid with the rays of the rising moon; she had a tawny tilaka of gorocanā, as if it were a third eye, like Parvatī in mountaineer’s attire, after the fashion of the garb of Çiva.

She was like Çrī, darkened by the sapphire glory of Nārāyaṇa reflected on the robe on her breast; or like Rati, stained by smoke which rose as Madana was burnt by the fire of wrathful Çiva; or like Yamunā, fleeing in fear of being drawn along by the ploughshare of wild Balarāma; or, from the rich lac that turned her lotus feet into budding shoots, like Durgā, with her feet crimsoned by the blood of the Asura Mahisha she had just trampled upon.

(23) Her nails were rosy from the pink glow of her fingers; the mosaic pavement seemed too hard for her touch, and she came forward, placing her feet like tender twigs upon the ground.

The rays of her anklets, rising in flame-colour, seemed to encircle her as with the arms of Agni, as though, by his love for her beauty, he would purify the stain of her birth, and so set the Creator at naught.

Her girdle was like the stars wreathed on the brow of the elephant of Love; and her necklace was a rope of large bright pearls, like the stream of Gangā just tinged by Yamunā.

‘The bosoms of your foemen’s queens now mourn,

Keeping a fast of widowed solitude,

Bathed in salt tears, of pearl-wreaths all forlorn,

Scorched by their sad hearts’ too close neighbourhood.’

And the king, having heard it, was amazed, and joyfully addressed his minister Kumārapālita, who sat close to him on a costly golden throne, like Bṛihaspati in his mastery of political philosophy, aged, of noble birth, first in the circle of wise councillors: ‘Thou hast heard the bird’s clear enunciation of consonants, and the sweetness of his intonation. This, in the first place, is a great marvel, that he should raise a song in which the syllables are clearly separated; and there is a combination of correctness with clearness in the vowels and anunāsikas. (28) Then, again, we had something more than that: for in him, though a lower creation, are found the accomplishments, as it were, of a man, in a pleasurable art, and the course of his song is inspired by knowledge. For it was he who, with the cry, “All hail!” straightened his right foot and sang this song concerning me, whereas, generally, birds and beasts are only skilled in the science of fearing, eating, pairing, and sleeping. This is most wonderful.’ And when the king had said this, Kumārapālita, with a slight smile, replied: ‘Where is the wonder? For all kinds of birds, beginning with the parrot and the maina, repeat a sound once heard, as thou, O king, knowest; so it is no wonder that exceeding skill is produced either by the efforts of men, or in consequence of perfection gained in a former birth. Moreover, they formerly possessed a voice like that of men, with clear utterance. The indistinct speech of parrots, as well as the change in elephants’ tongues, arose from a curse of Agni.’

Hardly had he thus spoken when there arose the blast of the mid-day conch, following the roar of the drum distinctly struck at the completion of the hour, and announcing that the sun had reached the zenith. (29) And, hearing this, the king dismissed his band of chiefs, as the hour for bathing was at hand, and arose from his hall of audience.

Then, as he started, the great chiefs thronged together as they rose, tearing their silk raiment with the leaf-work of their bracelets, as it fell from its place in the hurried movement. Their necklaces were swinging with the shock; the quarters of space were made tawny by showers of fragrant sandal-powder and saffron scattered from their limbs in their restlessness; the bees arose in swarms from their garlands of mālatī flowers, all quivering; their cheeks were caressed by the lotuses in their ears, half hanging down; their strings of pearls were trembling on their bosoms—each longed in his self-consciousness to pay his respects to the king as he departed.

The hall of audience was astir on all sides with the sound of the anklets of the cowrie bearers as they disappeared in all directions, bearing the cowries on their shoulders, their gems tinkling at every step, broken by the cry of the kalahaṃsas, eager to drink the lotus honey; (30) with the pleasant music of the jewelled girdles and wreaths of the dancing-girls coming to pay their respects as they struck their breast and sides; with the cries of the kalahaṃsas of the palace lake, which, charmed by the sound of the anklets, whitened the broad steps of the hall of audience; with the voices of the tame cranes, eager for the sound of the girdles, screaming more and more with a prolonged outcry, like the scratching of bell-metal; with the heavy tramp on the floor of the hall of audience struck by the feet of a hundred neighbouring chiefs suddenly departing, which seemed to shake the earth like a hurricane; with the cry of ‘Look!’ from the wand-bearing ushers, who were driving the people in confusion before them, and shouting loudly, yet good-naturedly, ‘Behold!’ long and shrill, resounding far by its echo in the bowers of the palace; (31) with the ringing of the pavement as it was scratched by the points of diadems with their projecting aigrettes, as the kings swiftly bent till their trembling crest-gems touched the ground; with the tinkling of the earrings as they rang on the hard mosaic in their owners’ obeisance; with the space-pervading din of the bards reciting auspicious verses, and coming forward with the pleasant continuous cry, ‘Long life and victory to our king!’; with the hum of the bees as they rose up leaving the flowers, by reason of the turmoil of the hundreds of departing feet; with the clash of the jewelled pillars on which the gems were set jangling from being struck by the points of the bracelets as the chieftains fell hastily prostrate in their confusion. The king then dismissed the assembled chiefs, saying, ‘Rest awhile’; and after saying to the Caṇḍāla maiden, ‘Let Vaiçampāyana be taken into the inner apartments,’ and giving the order to his betel-nut bearer, he went, accompanied by a few favourite princes, to his private apartments. There, laying aside his adornments, like the sun divested of his rays, or the sky bare of moon and stars, he entered the hall of exercise, where all was duly prepared. Having taken pleasant exercise therein with the princes of his own age, (32) he then entered the bathing-place, which was covered with a white canopy, surrounded by the verses of many a bard. It had a gold bath, filled with scented water in its midst, with a crystal bathing-seat placed by it, and was adorned with pitchers placed on one side, full of most fragrant waters, having their mouths darkened by bees attracted by the odour, as if they were covered with blue cloths, from fear of the heat. (33) Then the hand-maidens, some darkened by the reflection of their emerald jars, like embodied lotuses with their leafy cups, some holding silver pitchers, like night with a stream of light shed by the full moon, duly besprinkled the king. (34) Straightway there arose a blare of the trumpets sounded for bathing, penetrating all the hollows of the universe, accompanied by the din of song, lute, flute, drum, cymbal, and tabor, resounding shrilly in diverse tones, mingled with the uproar of a multitude of bards, and cleaving the path of hearing. Then, in due order, the king put upon him two white garments, light as a shed snake-skin, and wearing a turban, with an edge of fine silk, pure as a fleck of white cloud, like Himālaya with the stream of the heavenly river falling upon it, he made his libation to the Pitṛis with a handful of water, consecrated by a hymn, and then, prostrating himself before the sun, proceeded to the temple. When he had worshipped Çiva, and made an offering to Agni, (35) his limbs were anointed in the perfuming-room with sandal-wood, sweetened with the fragrance of saffron, camphor, and musk, the scent of which was followed by murmuring bees; he put on a chaplet of scented mālatī flowers, changed his garb, and, with no adornment save his jewelled earrings, he, together with the kings, for whom a fitting meal was prepared, broke his fast, with the pleasure that arises from the enjoyment of viands of sweet savour. Then, having drunk of a fragrant drug, rinsed his mouth, and taken his betel, he arose from his daïs, with its bright mosaic pavement. The portress, who was close by, hastened to him, and leaning on her arm, he went to the hall of audience, followed by the attendants worthy to enter the inner apartments, whose palms were like boughs, very hard from their firm grasp of their wands.

The hall showed as though walled with crystal by reason of the white silk that draped its ends; the jewelled floor was watered to coolness with sandal-water, to which was added very fragrant musk; the pure mosaic was ceaselessly strewn with masses of blossoms, as the sky with its bevy of stars; (36) many a golden pillar shone forth, purified with scented water, and decked with countless images, as though with the household gods in their niches; aloe spread its fragrance richly; the whole was dominated by an alcove, which held a couch white as a cloud after storm, with a flower-scented covering, a pillow of fine linen at the head, castors encrusted with gems, and a jewelled footstool by its side, like the peak of Himālaya to behold.

Reclining on this couch, while a maiden, seated on the ground, having placed in her bosom the dagger she was wont to bear, gently rubbed his feet with a palm soft as the leaves of fresh lotuses, the king rested for a short time, and held converse on many a theme with the kings, ministers, and friends whose presence was meet for that hour.

He then bade the portress, who was at hand, to fetch Vaiçampāyana from the women’s apartments, for he had become curious to learn his story. And she, bending hand and knee to the ground, with the words ‘Thy will shall be done!’ taking the command on her head, fulfilled his bidding. (37) Soon Vaiçampāyana approached the king, having his cage borne by the portress, under the escort of a herald, leaning on a gold staff, slightly bent, white robed, wearing a top-knot silvered with age, slow in gait, and tremulous in speech, like an aged flamingo in his love for the race of birds, who, placing his palm on the ground, thus delivered his message: ‘Sire, the queens send thee word that by thy command this Vaiçampāyana has been bathed and fed, and is now brought by the portress to thy feet.’ Thus speaking, he retired, and the king asked Vaiçampāyana: ‘Hast thou in the interval eaten food sufficient and to thy taste?’ ‘Sire,’ replied he, ‘what have I not eaten? I have drunk my fill of the juice of the jambū fruit, aromatically sweet, pink and blue as a cuckoo’s eye in the gladness of spring; I have cracked the pomegranate seeds, bright as pearls wet with blood, which lions’ claws have torn from the frontal bones of elephants. I have torn at my will old myrobalans, green as lotus leaves, and sweet as grapes. (38) But what need of further words? For everything brought by the queens with their own hands turns to ambrosia.’ And the king, rebuking his talk, said: ‘Let all this cease for a while, and do thou remove our curiosity. Tell us from the very beginning the whole history of thy birth—in what country, and how wert thou born, and by whom was thy name given? Who were thy father and mother? How came thine attainment of the Vedas, and thine acquaintance with the Çāstras, and thy skill in the fine arts? What caused thy remembrance of a former birth? Was it a special boon given thee? Or dost thou dwell in disguise, wearing the form only of a bird, and where didst thou formerly dwell? How old art thou, and how came this bondage of a cage, and the falling into the hands of a Caṇḍāla maiden, and thy coming hither?’ Thus respectfully questioned by the king, whose curiosity was kindled, Vaiçampāyana thought a moment, and reverently replied, ‘Sire, the tale is long; but if it is thy pleasure, let it be heard.’

‘In that forest there is a hermitage, famed throughout the world—a very birthplace of Dharma. It is adorned with trees tended by Lopāmudrā as her own children, fed with water sprinkled by her own hands, and trenched round by herself. She was the wife of the great ascetic Agastya; he it was who at the prayer of Indra drank up the waters of ocean, and who, when the Vindhya mountains, by a thousand wide peaks stretching to the sky in rivalry of Meru, were striving to stop the course of the sun’s chariot, and were despising the prayers of all the gods, yet had his commands obeyed by them; who digested the demon Vātāpi by his inward fire; who had the dust of his feet kissed by the tips of the gold ornaments on the crests of gods and demons; who adorned the brow of the Southern Region; and who manifested his majesty by casting Nahusha down from heaven by the mere force of his murmur.

‘The place is also darkened in many a spot by green parrots and by plantain groves, and is girt by the river Godāverī, which, like a dutiful wife, followed the path of the ocean when drunk by Agastya.

‘There, even now, the trees, though the hermitage has long been empty, show, as it were, in the lines of white doves softly nestling in the boughs, the hermits’ pure lines of sacrificial smoke clinging to them; and there a glow bursts forth on the shoots of creepers, as if it had passed to them from Sītā’s hand as she offered flowers of oblation; (45) there the water of ocean drunk and sent forth by the ascetic seems to have been wholly distributed among the great lakes round the hermitage; there the wood, with its fresh foliage, shines as if its roots had been watered with the blood of countless hosts of demons struck down by Rāma’s many keen shafts, and as if now its palaāças were stained with their crimson hue; there, even yet, the old deer nurtured by Sītā, when they hear the deep roar of fresh clouds in the rainy season, think on the twang of Rāma’s bow penetrating all the hollows of the universe, and refuse their mouthfuls of fresh grass, while their eyes are dimmed by ceaseless tears, as they see a deserted world, and their own horns crumbling from age; there, too, the golden deer, as if it had been incited by the rest of the forest deer slain in the ceaseless chase, deceived Sītā, and led the son of Raghu far astray; there, too, in their grief for the bitter loss of Sītā, Rāma and Lakshmaṇa seized by Kabandha, like an eclipse of sun and moon heralding the death of Rāvaṇa, filled the universe with a mighty dread; (46) there, too, the arm of Yojanabāhu, struck off by Rāma’s arrow, caused fear in the saints as it lay on the ground, lest it should be the serpent form of Nahusha, brought back by Agastya’s curse; there, even now, foresters behold Sītā painted inside the hut by her husband to solace his bereavement, as if she were again rising from the ground in her longing to see her husband’s home.

‘Now my father, who by reason of his great age barely dragged on his life, dwelt with my mother in a certain old hollow, and to him I was, by the decree of Fate, born as his only son. My mother, overcome by the pains of child-birth when I was born, went to another world, and, in spite of his grief for the death of his loved wife, my father, from love to his child, checked the keen onrush of his sorrow, and devoted himself in his loneliness wholly to my nurture. From his great age, the wide wings he raised had lost their power of flight, and hung loose from his shoulders, so that when he shook them he seemed to be trying to shake off the painful old age that clung to his body, while his few remaining tail feathers were broken like a tatter of kuça grass; and yet, though he was unable to wander far, he gathered up bits of fruit torn down by parrots and fallen at the foot of the tree, and picked up grains of rice from rice-stalks that had fallen from other nests, with a beak the point of which was broken and the edge worn away and rubbed by breaking rice-clusters, and pink as the stalk of the sephālikā flower when still hard, and he daily made his own meal on what I left.

‘The troops of parrots had all started to the places they desired; that tree seemed empty by reason of the great stillness, though it had all the young parrots resting quietly in their nests. (56) My father was still in his own nest, and I, as from my youth my wings were hardly fledged and had no strength, was close to him in the hollow, when I suddenly heard in that forest the sound of the tumult of the chase. It terrified every woodland creature; it was drawn out by a sound of birds’ wings flying hastily up; it was mingled with cries from the frightened young elephants; it was increased by the hum of drunken bees, disturbed on the shaken creepers; it was loud with the noise of wild boars roaming with raised snouts; it was swollen by the roar of lions wakened from their sleep in mountain caves; it seemed to shake the trees, and was great as the noise of the torrents of Ganges, when brought down by Bhagīratha; and the woodland nymphs listened to it in terror.

‘When I heard this strange sound I began to tremble in my childishness; the cavity of my ear was almost broken; I shook for fear, and thinking that my father, who was close by, could help me, I crept within his wings, loosened as they were by age.

‘Straightway I heard an outcry of “Hence comes the scent of the lotus beds the leaders of the elephants have trampled! Hence the perfume of rushes the boars have chewed! Hence the keen fragrance of gum-olibanum the young elephants have divided! Hence the rustling of dry leaves shaken down! (57) Hence the dust of antheaps that the horns of wild buffaloes have cleft like thunderbolts! Hence came a herd of deer! Hence a troop of wild elephants! Hence a band of wild boars! Hence a multitude of wild buffaloes! Hence the shriek of a circle of peacocks! Hence the murmur of partridges! Hence the cry of ospreys! Hence the groan of elephants with their frontal bones torn by lion’s claws! This is a boar’s path stained with fresh mud! This a mass of foam from the rumination of deer, darkened by the juice of mouthfuls of grass just eaten! This the hum of bees garrulous as they cling to the scent left by the rubbing of elephants’ foreheads with ichor flowing! That the path of the ruru deer pink with withered leaves bedewed with blood that has been shed. That is a mass of shoots on the trees crushed by the feet of elephants! Those are the gambols of rhinoceroses; that is the lion’s track jagged with pieces of the elephant’s pearls, pink with blood, and engraved with a monstrous device by their claws; that is the earth crimsoned with the blood of the newly born offspring of the does; that is the path, like a widow’s braid, darkened with the ichor of the lord of the herd wandering at his will! Follow this row of yaks straight before us! Quickly occupy this part of the wood where the dung of the deer is dried! (58) Climb the tree-top! Look out in this direction! Listen to this sound! Take the bow! Stand in your places! Let slip the hounds!” The wood trembled at the tumult of the hosts of men intent on the chase shouting to each other and concealed in the hollows of the trees.

‘Then that wood was soon shaken on all sides by the roar of lions struck by the Çabaras’ arrows, deepened by its echo rebounding from the hollows of the mountains, and strong as the sound of a drum newly oiled; by the roar from the throats of the elephants that led the herd, like the growl of thunder, and mixed with the ceaseless lashing of their trunks, as they came on alone, separated from the frightened herd; by the piteous cry of the deer, with their tremulous, terrified eyes, when the hounds suddenly tore their limbs; by the yell of she-elephants lengthening in grief for the death of their lord and leader, as they wandered every way with ears raised, ever pausing to listen to the din, bereft of their slain leaders and followed by their young; (59) by the bellowing of she-rhinoceroses seeking with outstretched necks their young, only born a few days before, and now lost in the panic; by the outcry of birds flying from the tree-tops, and wandering in confusion; by the tramp of herds of deer with all the haste of limbs made for speed, seeming to make the earth quake as it was struck simultaneously by their hurrying feet; by the twang of bows drawn to the ear, mingled, as they rained their arrows, with the cry from the throats of the loving she-ospreys; by the clash of swords with their blades whizzing against the wind and falling on the strong shoulders of buffaloes; and by the baying of the hounds which, as it was suddenly sent forth, penetrated all the recesses of the wood.

‘When soon afterwards the noise of the chase was stilled and the wood had become quiet, like the ocean when its water was stilled by the ceasing of the churning, or like a mass of clouds silent after the rainy season, I felt less of fear and became curious, and so, moving a little from my father’s embrace, (60) I stood in the hollow, stretched out my neck, and with eyes that, from my childishness, were yet tremulous with fear, in my eagerness to see what this thing was, I cast my glance in that direction.

‘And after going but a short way, I beheld the penance grove, hidden in thick woods rich in flowers and fruit.

‘And while I was thus thinking, Hārīta placed me somewhere in the shade of the açoka tree, and embracing his father’s feet and saluting him, sat down not far from him on a seat of kuça grass.

‘But the hermits, looking on me, asked him as he rested: “Whence was this little parrot brought?” “When I went hence to bathe,” replied he, “I found this little parrot fallen from its nest in a tree on the bank of the lotus-lake, faint with the heat, lying in hot dust, and shaken by the fall, with little life left in him. And as I could not replace him in his nest (for that tree was too hard for an ascetic to climb), I brought him hither in pity. So, while his wings are not grown, and he cannot fly into the sky, let him live in the hollow of some hermitage tree, (95) fed on the juice of fruits and on handfuls of rice brought to him by us and by the young hermits. For it is the law of our order to protect the weak. But when his wings are grown, and he can fly into the sky, he shall go where he likes. Or perhaps, when he knows us well, he will stay here.” The holy Jābāli, hearing this and other remarks about me, with some curiosity bent his head slightly, and, with a very calm glance that seemed to purify me with holy waters, he gazed long upon me, and then, looking again and again as if he were beginning to recognise me, said: “He is reaping the fruit of his own ill-conduct.” For by the potency of penance the saint with divine insight beholds the past, present, and future, and sees the whole world as though placed on the palm of his hand. He knows past births. He tells things yet to come. He declares the length of days of beings within his sight.

‘At these words the whole assemblage of hermits, aware of his power, became curious to know what was my crime, and why committed, and where, and who I was in a former birth; and implored the saint, saying: (96) “Vouchsafe, sir, to tell us of what kind of misconduct he is reaping the fruits. Who was he in a former birth, and how was he born in the form of a bird? How is he named? Do thou satisfy our curiosity, for thou art the fountain-head of all marvels.”

‘Thus urged by the assemblage, the great saint replied: “The story of this wonder is very long, the day is almost spent, our bathing-time is near, while the hour for worshipping the gods is passing. Arise, therefore; let each perform his duties as is meet. In the afternoon, after your meal of roots and fruits, when you are resting quietly, I will tell you the whole story from beginning to end—who he is, what he did in another birth, and how he was born in this world. Meanwhile, let him be refreshed with food. He will certainly recall, as it were, the vision of a dream when I tell the whole story of his former birth.” So saying, he arose, and with the hermits bathed and performed their other daily duties.

‘Only half a watch of the night was spent, when Hārīta took me after my meal and went with the other holy hermits to his father, who, in a moonlit spot of the hermitage, was sitting on a bamboo stool, gently fanned by a pupil named Jālapāda, who held a fan of antelope skin white as dharba grass, and he spake, saying: “Father, the whole assemblage of hermits is in a circle round thee, with hearts eager to hear this wonder; the little bird, too, has rested. Tell us, therefore, what he has done, who was he, and who will he be in another birth?” Thus addressed, the great saint, looking at me, and seeing the hermits before him intently listening, slowly spake: “Let the tale be told, if ye care to hear it.

‘“From him arose glory, as from the ocean of the moon, for his brightness, free from heat, consumed his foes; constant, ever roamed; stainless, darkened the brightness of the lotus-faced widows of his foes; white, made all things gay. (113) He was the incarnation of justice, the very representative of Vishṇu and the destroyer of all the sorrows of his people.

‘“Now, Tārāpīḍa while yet a child had conquered the whole earth ringed by the seven Dvīpas by the might of his arm, thick as the trunk of Indra’s elephant, and he devolved the weight of the empire on that councillor named Çukanāsa, and having made his subjects perfectly contented, he searched for anything else that remained to be done.

‘“And as he had crushed his enemies and had lost all cause for fear, and as the strain of the world’s affairs had become a little relaxed, for the most part he began to pursue the ordinary pleasures of youth.

(124) ‘“And some time passed while the king pursued the pleasures of youth, and entrusted the affairs of state to his minister; and after a time he came to the end of all the other pleasures of life, and the only one he did not get was the sight of a son born to him; so that his zenana was like reeds showing only flowers without fruit; and as youth went by there arose in him a regret produced by childlessness, and his mind was turned away from the desire of the pleasures of sense, and he felt himself alone, though surrounded by a thousand princes; blind, though possessed of sight; without support, though supporting the world.

(138) ‘“On one memorable day the king had gone at evening to an inner pavilion, where, encircled by a thousand lamps, burning bright with abundance of scented oil, he was like the full moon in the midst of stars, or like Nārāyaṇa seated among the thousand jewelled hoods of the king of snakes; he was surrounded only by a few great kings who had received the sprinkling of coronation; his own attendants stood at some distance; close by Çukanāsa was sitting on a high stool, clad in white silk, with little adornment, a statesman profound as the depths of ocean; and with him the king was holding a conversation on many topics, full of the confidence that had grown with their growth, when he was approached by the handmaiden Kulavardhanā, the queen’s chief attendant, always skilled in the ways of a court, well trained by nearness to royalty, and versed in all auspicious ceremonies, who whispered in his ear the news about Vilāsavatī. (139) At her words, so fresh to his ears, the king’s limbs were bedewed as if with ambrosia, a thrill passed through his whole body, and he was bewildered with the draught of joy; his cheeks burst into a smile; under the guise of the bright flash of his teeth he scattered abroad the happiness that overflowed his heart, and his eye, with its pupil quivering, and its lashes wet with tears of gladness, fell on the face of Çukanāsa. And when Çukanāsa saw the king’s exceeding joy, such as he had never seen before, and beheld the approach of Kulavardhanā with a radiant smile on her face, though he had not heard the tidings, yet, from constantly revolving the matter in his mind, he saw no other cause befitting the time of this excess of gladness; (140) he saw all, and bringing his seat closer to the king, said in a low voice: ‘My lord, there is some truth in that dream; for Kulavardhanā has her eyes radiant, and thy twin eyes announce a cause of great joy, for they are dilated, their pupils are tremulous, and they are bathed in tears of joy, and as they seem to creep to the lobes of thy ears in their eagerness to hear the good tidings, they produce, as it were, the beauty of an ear-pendant of blue lotuses. My longing heart yearns to hear the festival that has sprung up for it. Therefore let my lord tell me what is this news.’ When he had thus said, the king replied with a smile: ‘If it is true as she says, then all our dream is true; but I cannot believe it. How should so great a happiness fall to our lot? For we are no fitting vessel for the bearing of such good tidings. Kulavardhanā is always truthful, and yet when I consider how unworthy I am of such joy, I look upon her as having changed her nature. Rise, therefore; I myself will go and ask the queen if it is true, and then I shall know.’ (141) So saying, he dismissed all the kings, and taking off his ornaments, gave them to Kulavardhanā, and when, on his gracious dismissal of her with gifts, he received her homage paid with a deep reverence as she touched the earth with her straight brow, he rose with Çukanāsa and went to the inner apartments, hurried on by a mind filled with exceeding happiness, and gladdened by the throbbing of his right eye, which seemed to mimic the play of a blue lotus-petal stirred by the wind. He was followed by a scanty retinue, as befitted so late a visit, and had the thick darkness of the courtyard dispelled by the brightness of the lamps of the women who went before him, though their steady flame flickered in the wind.”’

(155) ‘“And as Candrāpīḍa underwent in due course all the circle of ceremonies, beginning with the tying of his top-knot, his childhood passed away; and to prevent distraction, Tārāpīḍa had built for him a palace of learning outside the city, stretching half a league along the Siprā river, surrounded by a wall of white bricks like the circle of peaks of a snow-mountain, girt with a great moat running along the walls, guarded by very strong gates, having one door kept open for ingress, with stables for horses and palanquins close by, and a gymnasium constructed beneath—a fit palace for the immortals. He took infinite pains in gathering there teachers of every science, and having placed the boy there, like a young lion in a cage, forbidding all egress, surrounding him with a suite composed mainly of the sons of his teachers, removing every allurement to the sports of boyhood, and keeping his mind free from distraction, on an auspicious day (156) he entrusted him, together with Vaiçampāyana, to masters, that they might acquire all knowledge. Every day when he rose, the king, with Vilāsavatī and a small retinue, went to watch him, and Candrāpīḍa, undisturbed in mind and kept to his work by the king, quickly grasped all the sciences taught him by teachers, whose efforts were quickened by his great powers, as they brought to light his natural abilities; the whole range of arts assembled in his mind as in a pure jewelled mirror. He gained the highest skill in word, sentence, proof, law, and royal policy; in gymnastics; in all kinds of weapons, such as the bow, quoit, shield, scimitar, dart, mace, battle-axe, and club; in driving and elephant-riding; in musical instruments, such as the lute, fife, drum, cymbal, and pipe; in the laws of dancing laid down by Bharata and others, and the science of music, such as that of Nārada; in the management of elephants, the knowledge of a horse’s age, and the marks of men; in painting, leaf-cutting, the use of books, and writing; in all the arts of gambling, knowledge of the cries of birds, and astronomy; in testing of jewels, (157) carpentry, the working of ivory; in architecture, physic, mechanics, antidotes, mining, crossing of rivers, leaping and jumping, and sleight of hand; in stories, dramas, romances, poems; in the Mahābhārata, the Purāṇas, the Itihāsas, and the Rāmāyaṇa; in all kinds of writing, all foreign languages, all technicalities, all mechanical arts; in metre, and in every other art. And while he ceaselessly studied, even in his childhood an inborn vigour like that of Bhīma shone forth in him and stirred the world to wonder. For when he was but in play the young elephants, who had attacked him as if he were a lion’s whelp, had their limbs bowed down by his grasp on their ears, and could not move; with one stroke of his scimitar he cut down palm-trees as if they were lotus-stalks; his shafts, like those of Paraçurāma when he blazed to consume the forest of earth’s royal stems, cleft only the loftiest peaks; he exercised himself with an iron club which ten men were needed to lift; and, except in bodily strength, he was followed close in all his accomplishments by Vaiçampāyana, (158) who, by reason of the honour Candrāpīḍa felt for his deep learning, and of his reverence due to Çukanāsa, and because they had played in the dust and grown up together, was the prince’s chief friend, and, as it were, his second heart, and the home of all his confidences. He would not be without Vaiçampāyana for a moment, while Vaiçampāyana never for an instant ceased to follow him, any more than the day would cease to follow the sun.

‘“And while Candrāpīḍa was thus pursuing his acquaintance with all knowledge, the spring of youth, loved of the three worlds as the amṛita draught of the ocean, gladdening the hearts of men as moonrise gladdens the gloaming; transient in change of iridescent glow, like the full arch of Indra’s bow to the rainy season; weapon of love, like the outburst of flowers to the tree of desire; beautiful in ever freshly revealed glow, like sunrise to the lotus-grove; ready for all play of graceful motion, like the plumes of the peacock, became manifest and brought to flower in him, fair as he was, a double beauty; love, lord of the hour, stood ever nigh, as if to do his bidding; his chest expanded like his beauty; his limbs won fulness, like the wishes of his friends; his waist became slender, like the host of his foes; (159) his form broadened, like his liberality; his majesty grew, like his hair; his arms hung down more and more, like the plaits of his enemies’ wives; his eyes became brighter, like his conduct; his shoulders broad, like his knowledge; and his heart deep, like his voice.

‘“And so in due course the king, learning that Candrāpīḍa had grown to youth, and had completed his knowledge of all the arts, studied all the sciences, and won great praise from his teachers, summoned Balāhaka, a mighty warrior, and, with a large escort of cavalry and infantry, sent him on a very auspicious day to fetch the prince. And Balāhaka, going to the palace of learning, entered, announced by the porters, and bending his head till its crest-jewels rested on the ground, sat down, by the prince’s permission, on a seat befitting his office, as reverently as though in the king’s presence; after a short pause he approached Candrāpīḍa and respectfully gave the king’s message: ‘Prince, the king bids me say: “Our desires are fulfilled; the çāstras have been studied; all the arts have been learnt; thou hast gained the highest skill in all the martial sciences. (160) All thy teachers give thee permission to leave the house of learning. Let the people see that thou hast received thy training, like a young royal elephant come out from the enclosure, having in thy mind the whole orb of the arts, like the full moon newly risen. Let the eyes of the world, long eager to behold thee, fulfil their true function; for all the zenanas are yearning for thy sight. This is now the tenth year of thine abode in the school, and thou didst enter it having reached the experience of thy sixth year. This year, then, so reckoned, is the sixteenth of thy life. Now, therefore, when thou hast come forth and shown thyself to all the mothers longing to see thee, and hast saluted those who deserve thy honour, do thou lay aside thy early discipline, and experience at thy will the pleasures of the court and the delights of fresh youth. Pay thy respects to the chiefs; honour the Brahmans; protect thy people; gladden thy kinsfolk. There stands at the door, sent by the king, this horse, named Indrāyudha, swift as Garuḍa or as the wind, the chief jewel of the three worlds; (161) for in truth the monarch of Persia, who esteemed him the wonder of the universe, sent him with this message: ‘This noble steed, sprung straight from the waters of ocean, was found by me, and is worthy for thee, O king, to mount;’ and when he was shown to those skilled in a horse’s points, they said: ‘He has all the marks of which men tell us as belonging to Uccaiḥçravas; there never has been nor will be a steed like him.’ Therefore let him be honoured by thy mounting him. These thousand princes, all sons of anointed kings, highly-trained, heroic, wise, and accomplished, and of long descent, sent for thine escort, wait on horseback, all eager to salute thee.”’ Having thus said, Balāhaka paused, and Candrāpīḍa, laying his father’s command on his head, in a voice deep as a new cloud gave the order, ‘Let Indrāyudha be brought,’ for he desired to mount him.

‘“Immediately on his command Indrāyudha was brought, and he beheld that wondrous steed, led by two men on each side grasping the circle of the bit, and using all their efforts to curb him. He was very large, his back being just within reach of a man’s uplifted hand; he seemed to drink the sky, which was on a level with his mouth; with a neigh which shook the cavity of his belly, and filled the hollows of the three worlds, he, as it were, upbraided Garuḍa for his vain trust in his fabled speed; (162) with a nostril snorting in wrath at any hindrance to his course, he, in his pride, examined the three worlds, that he might leap over them; his body was variegated with streaks of black, yellow, green, and pink, like Indra’s bow; he was like a young elephant, with a many-hued rug spread over him; like Çiva’s bull, pink with metallic dust from butting at Kailāsa’s peaks; like Pārvatī’s lion, with his mane crimsoned with the red streak of the demon’s clotted blood; and like the very incarnation of all energy, with a sound emitted from his ever-quivering nostrils, he seemed to pour forth the wind inhaled in his swift course; he scattered the foam-flakes that frothed from his lips from the champing of the points of the bit which rattled as he rolled it in his mouth, as if they were mouthfuls of ambrosia drunk in his ocean home. (164) And, beholding this steed, whose like was never before seen, in form fit for the gods, meet for the kingdom of the whole universe, (165) possessed of all the favourable marks, the perfection of a horse’s shape, the heart of Candrāpīḍa, though of a nature not easily moved, was touched with amazement, and the thought arose in his mind: ‘What jewel, if not this wondrous horse, was brought up by the Suras and Asuras when they churned the waters of ocean and whirled round Mount Mandara with the serpent Vāsuki revolving in ceaseless gyration? And what has Indra gained by his lordship of the three worlds if he did not mount this back, broad as Mount Meru? Surely Indra was cheated by the ocean when his heart was gladdened by Uccaiḥçravas! And I think that so far he has not crossed the sight of holy Nārāyaṇa, who even now does not give up his infatuation for riding Garuḍa. My father’s royal glory surpasses the riches of the kingdom of heaven, in that treasures such as this, which can hardly be gained in the whole universe, come here into servitude. From its magnificence and energy, this form of his seems the shrine of a god, and the truth of this makes me fear to mount him. For forms like this, fit for the gods and the wonder of the universe, belong to no common horse. Even deities, subject to a muni’s curse, have been known to leave their own bodies and inhabit other bodies brought to them by the terms of the curse. (166) For there is a story of old how Sthūlaçiras, a muni of great austerity, cursed an Apsaras named Rambhā, the ornament of the three worlds; and she, leaving heaven, entered the heart of a horse, and thus, as the story goes, dwelt for a long time on earth as a mare, in the service of King Çatadhanvan, at Mṛittikāvatī; and many other great-souled beings, having had their glory destroyed by the curse of munis, have roamed the world in various forms. Surely this must be some noble being subject to a curse! My heart declares his divinity.’ Thus thinking, he rose, wishing to mount; and in mind only approaching the steed, he prayed thus: ‘Noble charger, thou art that thou art! All hail to thee! Yet let my audacity in mounting thee be forgiven! for even deities whose presence is unknown taste of a contumely all unmeet for them.’

‘“As if knowing his thought, Indrāyudha looked at him with eye askance, the pupil turned and partly closed by the lashing of his tossing mane, (167) and repeatedly struck the ground with his right hoof, till the hair on his chest was gray with the dust it cast up, as though summoning the prince to mount, with a pleasant whinnying long drawn out into a gentle soft murmur blent with the snorting of his quivering nostrils. Whereupon Candrāpīḍa mounted Indrāyudha, as though invited thereunto by his pleasant neighing; and, having mounted, he passed out, thinking the whole universe but a span long, and beheld a cavalcade of which the furthest limits could not be seen; it deafened the hollows of the three worlds with the clatter of hoofs breaking up the earth, fierce as a shower of stones let fall from the clouds, and with a neighing sounding the fiercer from nostrils choked with dust; it decked the sky with a forest of lances all horrent, whose shafts gleamed bright when touched by the sun, like a lake half hidden in a grove of blue lotus-buds upborne on their stalks; from its darkening the eight quarters with its thousand umbrellas all raised, it was like a mass of clouds iridescent with the full arch of Indra’s bow shining on them; (168) while from the horses’ mouths being white with foam-flakes cast abroad, and from the undulating line of their ceaseless curvetting, it rose to sight like a mass of ocean billows in the flood of final destruction; all the horses were in motion at Candrāpīḍa’s approach, as the waves of ocean at the moon’s rising; and the princes, each wishing to be first in their eagerness to pay their homage, having their heads unprotected by the hasty removal of their umbrellas, and weary with trying to curb their horses, which were wild with trampling on each other, drew around the prince. As Balāhaka presented each by name, they bowed, bending low their heads, which showed the glow of loyalty under the guise of the rays uprising from the rubies in their waving crests, and which, from their having buds held up in adoration, were like lotuses resting on the water in the pitchers of coronation. Having saluted them, Candrāpīḍa, accompanied by Vaiçampāyana, also mounted, straightway set out for the city. (169) He was shaded by a very large umbrella with a gold stick, borne above him, formed like the lotus on which royal glory might dwell, like the moon’s orb to the moon-lotus grove of royal races, like an island being formed by the flow of the cavalcade, in hue like the circle of Vāsuki’s hood whitened by the sea of milk, garlanded with many a rope of pearls, bearing the device of a lion designed above. The flowers in his ears were set dancing by the wind of the cowries waved on either side, and his praises were sung by many thousands of retainers running before him, young, for the most part, and brave, and by the bards, who ceaselessly recited aloud auspicious verses, with a soft cry of ‘Long life and victory.’

‘“And as they uttered these and other sayings of the same kind, Candrāpīḍa, drunk in by their eyes, summoned by the tinkling of their ornaments, followed by their hearts, bound by the ropes of the rays of their jewels, honoured with the offering of their fresh youth, bestrewn with flowers and rice in salutation like a marriage fire, advancing step by step on a mass of white bracelets slipping from their languid arms, reached the palace.”’

‘“And in these doings of his the day came to a close; the sun’s orb fell with lifted rays like the ruby anklet—its interstices veiled in its own light—of the Glory of Day, as she hastens from the sky. (198) And when evening had begun, Candrāpīḍa, encircled by a fence of lighted lamps, went on foot to the king’s palace, (199) and having stayed a short time with his father, and seen Vilāsavatī, he returned to his own house and lay down on a couch, many-hued with the radiance of various gems, like Kṛishṇa on the circle of Çesha’s hoods.

‘“On dismounting, he sat down on a seat brought hastily by his attendants, took off his corselet, and removed the rest of his riding apparel; he then rested a short time, till his weariness was removed by the wind of waving fans; having rested, he went to the bathroom, provided with a hundred pitchers of gold, silver, and jewels, and having a gold seat placed in its midst. And when the bath was over, and he had been rubbed in a separate room with cloths, his head was covered with a strip of pure linen, his raiment was put on, and he performed his homage to the gods; and when he entered the perfuming-room, there approached him the court women attendants, appointed by the grand chamberlain and sent by the king, slaves of Vilāsavatī, with Kulavardhanā, and zenana women sent from the whole zenana, bearing in baskets different ornaments, wreaths, unguents, and robes, which they presented to him. Having taken them in due order from the women, he first himself anointed Vaiçampāyana. When his own anointing was done, and giving to those around him flowers, perfumes, robes, and jewels, as was meet, (202) he went to the banquet-hall, rich in a thousand jewelled vessels, like the autumn sky gleaming with stars. He there sat on a doubled rug, with Vaiçampāyana next him, eagerly employed, as was fitting, in praising his virtues, and the host of princes, placed each in order of seniority on the ground, felt the pleasure of their service increased by seeing the great courtesy with which the prince said: ‘Let this be given to him, and that to him!’ And so he duly partook of his morning meal.

‘“After rinsing his mouth and taking betel, he stayed there a short time, and then went to Indrāyudha, and there, without sitting down, while his attendants stood behind him, with upraised faces, awaiting his commands, and talking mostly about Indrāyudha’s points, he himself, with heart uplifted by Indrāyudha’s merits, scattered the fodder before him, and departing, visited the court; and in the same order of routine he saw the king, and, returning home, spent the night there. Next day, at dawn, he beheld approaching a chamberlain, by name Kailāsa, the chief of the zenana, greatly trusted by the king, accompanied by a maiden of noble form, in her first youth, from her life at court self-possessed, yet not devoid of modesty, (203) growing to maidenhood, and in her veil of silk red with cochineal, resembling the Eastern quarter clothed in early sunshine. (204) And Kailāsa, bowing and approaching, with his right hand placed on the ground, spoke as follows:

‘“‘Prince, Queen Vilāsavatī bids me say: “This maiden, by name Patralekhā, daughter of the King of Kulūta, was brought with the captives by the great king on his conquest of the royal city of Kulūta while she was yet a little child, and was placed among the zenana women. And tenderness grew up in me towards her, seeing she was a king’s daughter and without a protector, and she was long cared for and brought up by me just like a daughter. Therefore, I now send her to thee, thinking her fit to be thy betel-bearer; but she must not be looked on by thee, great prince of many days, as thine other attendants. She must be cared for as a young maiden; she must be shielded from the thoughtless like thine own nature; she must be looked on as a pupil. (205) Like a friend, she must be admitted to all thy confidences. By reason of the love that has long grown up in me, my heart rests on her as on my own daughter; and being sprung from a great race, she is fitted for such duties; in truth, she herself will in a few days charm the prince by her perfect gentleness. My love for her is of long growth, and therefore strong; but as the prince does not yet know her character, this is told to him. Thou must in all ways strive, happy prince, that she may long be thy fitting companion.”’ When Kailāsa had thus spoken and was silent, Candrāpīḍa looked long and steadily at Patralekhā as she made a courteous obeisance, and with the words, ‘As my mother wishes,’ dismissed the chamberlain. And Patralekhā, from her first sight of him, was filled with devotion to him, and never left the prince’s side either by night or day, whether he was sleeping, or sitting, or standing, or walking, or going to the court, just as if she were his shadow; while he felt for her a great affection, beginning from his first glance at her, and constantly growing; he daily showed more favour to her, and counted her in all his secrets as part of his own heart.

‘“‘When this wretched evil creature wins kings after great toil by the will of destiny, they become helpless, and the abode of every shameful deed. For at the very moment of coronation their graciousness is washed away as if by the auspicious water-jars; (214) their heart is darkened as by the smoke of the sacrificial fire; their patience is swept away as by the kuça brooms of the priest; their remembrance of advancing age is concealed as by the donning of the turban; the sight of the next world is kept afar as by the umbrella’s circle; truth is removed as by the wind of the cowries; virtue is driven out as by the wands of office; the voices of the good are drowned as by cries of “All hail!” and glory is flouted as by the streamers of the banners.

‘“‘At all events, the man they welcome, with whom they converse, whom they place by their side, advance, (219) take as companion of their pleasure and recipient of their gifts, choose as a friend, the man to whose voice they listen, on whom they rain favours, of whom they think highly, in whom they trust, is he who does nothing day and night but ceaselessly salute them, praise them as divine, and exalt their greatness.

‘“‘What can we expect of those kings whose standard is a law of deceit, pitiless in the cruelty of its maxims; whose gurus are family priests, with natures made merciless by magic rites; whose teachers are councillors skilled to deceive others; whose hearts are set on a power that hundreds of kings before them have gained and lost; whose skill in weapons is only to inflict death; whose brothers, tender as their hearts may be with natural affection, are only to be slaughtered.

‘“‘Therefore, my Prince, in this post of empire which is terrible in the hundreds of evil and perverse impulses which attend it, and in this season of youth which leads to utter infatuation, thou must strive earnestly not to be scorned by thy people, nor blamed by the good, nor cursed by thy gurus, nor reproached by thy friends, nor grieved over by the wise. Strive, too, that thou be not exposed by knaves, (220) deceived by sharpers, preyed upon by villains, torn to pieces by wolvish courtiers, misled by rascals, deluded by women, cheated by fortune, led a wild dance by pride, maddened by desire, assailed by the things of sense, dragged headlong by passion, carried away by pleasure.

‘“‘Granted that by nature thou art steadfast, and that by thy father’s care thou art trained in goodness, and moreover, that wealth only intoxicates the light of nature, and the thoughtless, yet my very delight in thy virtues makes me speak thus at length.

‘“‘Let this saying be ever ringing in thine ears: There is none so wise, so prudent, so magnanimous, so gracious, so steadfast, and so earnest, that the shameless wretch Fortune cannot grind him to powder. Yet now mayest thou enjoy the consecration of thy youth to kinghood by thy father under happy auspices. Bear the yoke handed down to thee that thy forefathers have borne. Bow the heads of thy foes; raise the host of thy friends; after thy coronation wander round the world for conquest; and bring under thy sway the earth with its seven continents subdued of yore by thy father.

‘“‘This is the time to crown thyself with glory. (221) A glorious king has his commands fulfilled as swiftly as a great ascetic.’

‘“Having said thus much, he was silent, and by his words Candrāpīḍa was, as it were, washed, wakened, purified, brightened, bedewed, anointed, adorned, cleansed, and made radiant, and with glad heart he returned after a short time to his own palace.

(225) ‘“Then an elephant was hastily brought by the mahout, adorned with all auspicious signs for the journey, and on the inner seat Patralekhā was placed. The prince then mounted, and under the shade of an umbrella with a hundred wires enmeshed with pearls, beauteous as Kailāsa standing on the arms of Rāvaṇa, and white as the whirlpools of the Milky Ocean under the tossing of the mountain, he started on his journey. And as he paused in his departure he saw the ten quarters tawny with the rich sunlight, surpassing molten lac, of the flashing crest-jewels of the kings who watched him with faces hidden behind the ramparts, as if the light were the fire of his own majesty, flashing forth after his coronation. He saw the earth bright as if with his own glow of loyalty when anointed as heir-apparent, and the sky crimson as with the flame that heralded the swift destruction of his foes, and daylight roseate as with lac-juice from the feet of the Lakshmī of earth coming to greet him.

‘“Then the whole army set forth with wondrous turmoil, with its forest of umbrellas stirred by the elephants’ movements, like an ocean of destruction reflecting on its advancing waves a thousand moons, flooding the earth.

(227) ‘“When the prince left his palace Vaiçampāyana performed every auspicious rite, and then, clothed in white, anointed with an ointment of white flowers, accompanied by a great host of powerful kings, shaded by a white umbrella, followed close on the prince, mounted on a swift elephant, like a second Crown Prince, and drew near to him like the moon to the sun. Straightway the earth heard on all sides the cry: ‘The Crown Prince has started!’ and shook with the weight of the advancing army.

(228) ‘“In an instant the earth seemed as it were made of horses; the horizon, of elephants; the atmosphere, of umbrellas; the sky, of forests of pennons; the wind, of the scent of ichor; the human race, of kings; the eye, of the rays of jewels; the day, of crests; the universe, of cries of ‘All hail!’

(228–234 condensed) ‘“The dust rose at the advance of the army like a herd of elephants to tear up the lotuses of the sunbeams, or a veil to cover the Lakshmī of the three worlds. Day became earthy; the quarters were modelled in clay; the sky was, as it were, resolved in dust, and the whole universe appeared to consist of but one element.

(234) ‘“When the horizon became clear again, Vaiçampāyana, looking at the mighty host which seemed to rise from the ocean, was filled with wonder, and, turning his glance on every side, said to Candrāpīḍa: ‘What, prince, has been left unconquered by the mighty King Tārāpīḍa, for thee to conquer? What regions unsubdued, for thee to subdue? (235) What fortresses untaken, for thee to take? What continents unappropriated, for thee to appropriate? What treasures ungained, for thee to gain? What kings have not been humbled? By whom have the raised hands of salutation, soft as young lotuses, not been placed on the head? By whose brows, encircled with golden bands, have the floors of his halls not been polished? Whose crest-jewels have not scraped his footstool? Who have not accepted his staff of office? Who have not waved his cowries? Who have not raised the cry of “Hail!”? Who have not drunk in with the crocodiles of their crests, the radiance of his feet, like pure streams? For all these princes, though they are imbued with the pride of armies, ready in their rough play to plunge into the four oceans; though they are the peers of the great kings Daçaratha, Bhagīratha, Bharata, Dilīpa, Alarka, and Māndhātṛi; though they are anointed princes, soma-drinkers, haughty in the pride of birth, yet they bear on the sprays of crests purified with the shower of the water of consecration the dust of thy feet of happy omen, like an amulet of ashes. By them as by fresh noble mountains, the earth is upheld. These their armies that have entered the heart of the ten regions follow thee alone. (236) For lo! wherever thy glance is cast, hell seems to vomit forth armies, the earth to bear them, the quarters to discharge them, the sky to rain them, the day to create them. And methinks the earth, trampled by the weight of boundless hosts, recalls to-day the confusion of the battles of the Mahābhārata.

‘“‘Here the sun wanders in the groves of pennons, with his orb stumbling over their tops, as if he were trying, out of curiosity, to count the banners. The earth is ceaselessly submerged under ichor sweet as cardamons, and flowing like a plait of hair, from the elephants who scatter it all round, and thick, too, with the murmur of the bees settling on it, so that it shines as if filled with the waves of Yamunā. The lines of moon-white flags hide the horizon, like rivers that in fear of being made turbid by the heavy host have fled to the sky. It is a wonder that the earth has not to-day been split into a thousand pieces by the weight of the army; and that the bonds of its joints, the noble mountains, are not burst asunder; and that the hoods of Çesha, the lord of serpents, in distress at the burden of earth pressed down under the load of troops, do not give way.’

(237) ‘“While he was thus speaking, the prince reached his palace. It was adorned with many lofty triumphal arches; dotted with a thousand pavilions enclosed in grassy ramparts, and bright with many a tent of shining white cloth. Here he dismounted, and performed in kingly wise all due rites; and though the kings and ministers who had come together sought to divert him with various tales, he spent the rest of the day in sorrow, for his heart was tortured with bitter grief for his fresh separation from his father. When day was brought to a close he passed the night, too, mostly in sleeplessness, with Vaiçampāyana resting on a couch not far from his own, and Patralekhā sleeping hard by on a blanket placed on the ground; his talk was now of his father, now of his mother, now of Çukanāsa, and he rested but little. At dawn he arose, and with an army that grew at every march, as it advanced in unchanged order, he hollowed the earth, shook the mountains, dried the rivers, emptied the lakes, (238) crushed the woods to powder, levelled the crooked places, tore down the fortresses, filled up the hollows, and hollowed the solid ground.

‘“By degrees, as he wandered at will, he bowed the haughty, exalted the humble, encouraged the fearful, protected the suppliant, rooted out the vicious, and drove out the hostile. He anointed princes in different places, gathered treasures, accepted gifts, took tribute, taught local regulations, established monuments of his visit, made hymns of worship, and inscribed edicts. He honoured Brahmans, reverenced saints, protected hermitages, and showed a prowess that won his people’s love. He exalted his majesty, heaped up his glory, showed his virtues far and wide, and won renown for his good deeds. Thus trampling down the woods on the shore, and turning the whole expanse of ocean to gray with the dust of his army, he wandered over the earth.

‘“The East was his first conquest, then the Southern Quarter, marked by Triçanku, then the Western Quarter, which has Varuṇa for its sign, and immediately afterwards the Northern Quarter adorned by the Seven Ṛishis. Within the three years that he roamed over the world he had subdued the whole earth, with its continents, bounded only by the moat of four oceans.

(239) ‘“He then, wandering sunwise, conquered and occupied Suvarṇapura, not far from the Eastern Ocean, the abode of those Kirātas who dwell near Kailāsa, and are called Hemajakūṭas, and as his army was weary from its worldwide wandering, he encamped there for a few days to rest.

‘“One day during his sojourn there he mounted Indrāyudha to hunt, and as he roamed through the wood he beheld a pair of Kinnaras wandering down at will from the mountains. Wondering at the strange sight, and eager to take them, he brought up his horse respectfully near them and approached them. But they hurried on, fearing the unknown sight of a man, and fleeing from him, while he pursued them, doubling Indrāyudha’s speed by frequent pats on his neck, and went on alone, leaving his army far behind. Led on by the idea that he was just catching them, he was borne in an instant fifteen leagues from his own quarters by Indrāyudha’s speed as it were at one bound, and was left companionless. (240) The pair of Kinnaras he was pursuing were climbing a steep hill in front of him. He at length turned away his glance, which was following their progress, and, checked by the steepness of the ascent, reined in Indrāyudha. Then, seeing that both his horse and himself were tired and heated by their toils, he considered for a moment, and laughed at himself as he thought: ‘Why have I thus wearied myself for nothing, like a child? What matters it whether I catch the pair of Kinnaras or not? If caught, what is the good? if missed, what is the harm? What a folly this is of mine! What a love of busying myself in any trifle! What a passion for aimless toil! What a clinging to childish pleasure! The good work I was doing has been begun in vain. The needful rite I had begun has been rendered fruitless. The duty of friendship I undertook has not been performed. The royal office I was employed in has not been fulfilled. The great task I had entered on has not been completed. My earnest labour in a worthy ambition has been brought to nought. Why have I been so mad as to leave my followers behind and come so far? (241) and why have I earned for myself the ridicule I should bestow on another, when I think how aimlessly I have followed these monsters with their horses’ heads? I know not how far off is the army that follows me. For the swiftness of Indrāyudha traverses a vast space in a moment, and his speed prevented my noticing as I came by what path I should turn back, for my eyes were fixed on the Kinnaras; and now I am in a great forest, spread underfoot with dry leaves, with a dense growth of creepers, underwood, and branching trees. Roam as I may here I cannot light on any mortal who can show me the way to Suvarṇapura. I have often heard that Suvarṇapura is the farthest bound of earth to the north, and that beyond it lies a supernatural forest, and beyond that again is Kailāsa. This then is Kailāsa; so I must turn back now, and resolutely seek to make my way unaided to the south. For a man must bear the fruit of his own faults.’

‘“With this purpose he shook the reins in his left hand, and turned the horse’s head. Then he again reflected: (242) ‘The blessed sun with glowing light now adorns the south, as if he were the zone-gem of the glory of day. Indrāyudha is tired; I will just let him eat a few mouthfuls of grass, and then let him bathe and drink in some mountain rill or river; and when he is refreshed I will myself drink some water, and after resting a short time under the shade of a tree, I will set out again.’

‘“So thinking, constantly turning his eyes on every side for water, he wandered till at length he saw a track wet with masses of mud raised by the feet of a large troop of mountain elephants, who had lately come up from bathing in a lotus-pool. (243) Inferring thence that there was water near, he went straight on along the slope of Kailāsa, the trees of which, closely crowded as they were, seemed, from their lack of boughs, to be far apart, for they were mostly pines, çāl, and gum olibanum trees, and were lofty, and like a circle of umbrellas, to be gazed at with upraised head. There was thick yellow sand, and by reason of the stony soil the grass and shrubs were but scanty.

(244) ‘“At length he beheld, on the north-east of Kailāsa, a very lofty clump of trees, rising like a mass of clouds, heavy with its weight of rain, and massed as if with the darkness of a night in the dark fortnight.

‘“The wind from the waves, soft as sandal, dewy, cool from passing over the water, aromatic with flowers, met him, and seemed to woo him; and the cries of kalahaṃsas drunk with lotus-honey, charming his ear, summoned him to enter. So he went into that clump, and in its midst beheld the Acchoda Lake, as if it were the mirror of the Lakshmī of the three worlds, the crystal chamber of the goddess of earth, the path by which the waters of ocean escape, the oozing of the quarters, the avatar of part of the sky, Kailāsa taught to flow, Himavat liquefied, moonlight melted, Çiva’s smile turned to water, (245) the merit of the three worlds abiding in the shape of a lake, a range of hills of lapis lazuli changed into water, or a mass of autumn clouds poured down in one spot. From its clearness it might be Varuṇa’s mirror; it seemed to be fashioned of the hearts of ascetics, the virtues of good men, the bright eyes of deer, or the rays of pearls.

‘“The very sight of it seemed to remove Candrāpīḍa’s weariness, and as he gazed he thought:

(253–256 condensed) ‘“Welcomed by the breezes of Kailāsa, he went towards that spot, which was surrounded by trees on all sides, and at the foot of the slope of Kailāsa, on the left bank of the lake, called Candraprabhā, which whitened the whole region with a splendour as of moonlight, he beheld an empty temple of Çiva.

(257) ‘“As he entered the temple he was whitened by the falling on him of ketakī pollen, tossed by the wind, as if for the sake of seeing Çiva he had been forcibly made to perform a vow of putting on ashes, or as if he were robed in the pure merits of entering the temple; and, in a crystal shrine resting on four pillars, he beheld Çiva, the four-faced, teacher of the world, the god whose feet are honoured by the universe, with his emblem, the linga, made of pure pearl. Homage had been paid to the deity by shining lotuses of the heavenly Ganges, that might be mistaken for crests of pearls, freshly-plucked and wet, with drops falling from the ends of their leaves, like fragments of the moon’s disc split and set upright, or like parts of Çiva’s own smile, or scraps of Çesha’s hood, or brothers of Kṛishṇa’s conch, or the heart of the Milky Ocean.

(258) ‘“But, seated in a posture of meditation, to the right of the god, facing him, Candrāpīḍa beheld a maiden vowed to the service of Çiva, who turned the region with its mountains and woods to ivory by the brightness of her beauty. For its lustre shone far, spreading through space, white as the tide of the Milky Ocean, overwhelming all things at the day of doom, or like a store of penance gathered in long years and flowing out, streaming forth massed together like Ganges between the trees, giving a fresh whiteness to Kailāsa, and purifying the gazer’s soul, though it but entered his eye. The exceeding whiteness of her form concealed her limbs as though she had entered a crystal shrine, or had plunged into a sea of milk, or were hidden in spotless silk, or were caught on the surface of a mirror, or were veiled in autumn clouds. She seemed to be fashioned from the quintessence of whiteness, without the bevy of helps for the creation of the body that consist of matter formed of the five gross elements.

‘“She seemed from her whiteness to have taken a share from all the haṃsas; (261) or to have come from the heart of righteousness; or to have been fashioned from a shell; or drawn from a pearl; or formed from lotus-fibres; or made of flakes of ivory; or purified by brushes of moonbeams; or inlaid with lime; or whitened with foam-balls of ambrosia; or laved in streams of quicksilver; or rubbed with melted silver; or dug out from the moon’s orb; or decked with the hues of kuṭaja, jasmine, and sinduvāra flowers. She seemed, in truth, to be the very furthest bound of whiteness. Her head was bright with matted locks hanging on her shoulders, made, as it were, of the brightness of morning rays taken from the sun on the Eastern Mountain, tawny like the quivering splendour of flashing lightning, and, being wet from recent bathing, marked with the dust of Çiva’s feet clasped in her devotion; she bore Çiva’s feet marked with his name in jewels on her head, fastened with a band of hair; (262) and her brow had a sectarial mark of ashes pure as the dust of stars ground by the heels of the sun’s horses. (266) She was a goddess, and her age could not be known by earthly reckoning, but she resembled a maiden of eighteen summers.

‘“Having beheld her, Candrāpīḍa dismounted, tied his horse to a bough, and then, reverently bowing before the blessed Çiva, gazed again on that heavenly maiden with a steady unswerving glance. And as her beauty, grace, and serenity stirred his wonder, the thought arose in him: ‘How in this world each matter in its turn becomes of no value! For when I was pursuing the pair of Kinnaras wantonly and vainly I beheld this most beautiful place, inaccessible to men, and haunted by the immortals. (267) Then in my search for water I saw this delightful lake sought by the Siddhas. While I rested on its bank I heard a divine song; and as I followed the sound, this divine maiden, too fair for mortal sight, met my eyes. For I cannot doubt her divinity. Her very beauty proclaims her a goddess. And whence in the world of men could there arise such harmonies of heavenly minstrelsy? If, therefore, she vanishes not from my sight, nor mounts the summit of Kailāsa, nor flies to the sky, I will draw near and ask her, “Who art thou, and what is thy name, and why hast thou in the dawn of life undertaken this vow?” This is all full of wonder.’ With this resolve he approached another pillar of the crystal shrine, and sat there, awaiting the end of the song.

‘“Then when she had stilled her lute, like a moon-lotus bed when the pleasant hum of the bees is silenced, (268) the maiden rose, made a sunwise turn and an obeisance to Çiva, and then turning round, with a glance by nature clear, and by the power of penance confident, she, as it were, gave courage to Candrāpīḍa, as if thereby she were sprinkling him with merits, laving him with holy water, purifying him with penance, freeing him from stain, giving him his heart’s desire, and leading him to purity.

‘“‘Hail to my guest!’ said she. ‘How has my lord reached this place? Rise, draw near, and receive a guest’s due welcome.’ So she spake; and he, deeming himself honoured even by her deigning to speak with him, reverently arose and bowed before her. ‘As thou biddest, lady,’ he replied, and showed his courtesy by following in her steps like a pupil. And on the way he thought: ‘Lo, even when she beheld me she did not vanish! Truly a hope of asking her questions has taken hold of my heart. And when I see the courteous welcome, rich in kindness, of this maiden, fair though she be with a beauty rare in ascetics, I surely trust that at my petition she will tell me all her story.’

(269) ‘“Having gone about a hundred paces, he beheld a cave, with its entrance veiled by dense tamālas, showing even by day a night of their own; its edge was vocal with the glad bees’ deep murmur on the bowers of creepers with their opening blossoms; it was bedewed with torrents that in their sheer descent fell in foam, dashing against the white rock, and cleft by the axe-like points of the jagged cliff, with a shrill crash as the cold spray rose up and broke; it was like a mass of waving cowries hanging from a door, from the cascades streaming down on either side, white as Çiva’s smile, or as pearly frost. Within was a circle of jewelled pitchers; on one side hung a veil worn in sacred meditation; a clean pair of shoes made of cocoanut matting hung on a peg; one corner held a bark bed gray with dust scattered by the ashes the maiden wore; the place of honour was filled by a bowl of shell carved with a chisel, like the orb of the moon; and close by there stood a gourd of ashes.

‘“On the rock at the entrance Candrāpīḍa took his seat, and when the maiden, having laid her lute on the pillow of the bark bed, took in a leafy cup some water from the cascade to offer to her guest, and he said as she approached (270): ‘Enough of these thy great toils. Cease this excess of grace. Be persuaded, lady. Let this too great honour be abandoned. The very sight of thee, like the aghamarshaṇa hymn, stills all evil and sufficeth for purification. Deign to take thy seat!’ Yet being urged by her, he reverently, with head bent low, accepted all the homage she gave to her guest. When her cares for her guest were over, she sat down on another rock, and after a short silence he told, at her request, the whole story of his coming in pursuit of the pair of Kinnaras, beginning with his expedition of conquest. The maiden then rose, and, taking a begging bowl, wandered among the trees round the temple; and ere long her bowl was filled with fruits that had fallen of their own accord. As she invited Candrāpīḍa to the enjoyment of them, the thought arose in his heart: ‘Of a truth, there is nought beyond the power of penance. For it is a great marvel how the lords of the forest, albeit devoid of sense, yet, like beings endowed with sense, gain honour for themselves by casting down their fruits for this maiden. A wondrous sight is this, and one never seen before.’

‘“So, marvelling yet more, he brought Indrāyudha to that spot, unsaddled him, and tied him up hard by. (271) Then, having bathed in the torrent, he partook of the fruits, sweet as ambrosia, and drank the cool water of the cascade, and having rinsed his mouth, he waited apart while the maiden enjoyed her repast of water, roots, and fruit.

‘“When her meal was ended and she had said her evening prayer, and taken her seat fearlessly on the rock, the Prince quietly approached her, and sitting down near her, paused awhile and then respectfully said:

‘“‘Lady, the folly that besets mankind impels me even against my will to question thee, for I am bewildered by a curiosity that has taken courage from thy kindness. For even the slightest grace of a lord emboldens a weak nature: even a short time spent together creates intimacy. Even a slight acceptance of homage produces affection. Therefore, if it weary thee not, I pray thee to honour me with thy story. For from my first sight of thee a great eagerness has possessed me as to this matter. Is the race honoured by thy birth, lady, that of the Maruts, or Ṛishis, or Gandharvas, or Guhyakas, or Apsarases? And wherefore in thy fresh youth, tender as a flower, has this vow been taken? (272) For how far apart would seem thy youth, thy beauty, and thine exceeding grace, from this thy peace from all thoughts of earth! This is marvellous in mine eyes! And wherefore hast thou left the heavenly hermitages that gods may win, and that hold all things needful for the highest saints, to dwell alone in this deserted wood? And whereby hath thy body, though formed of the five gross elements, put on this pure whiteness? Never have I heard or seen aught such as this. I pray thee dispel my curiosity, and tell me all I ask.’

‘“For a little time she pondered his request in silence, and then she began to weep noiselessly, and her eyes were blinded by tears which fell in large drops, carrying with them the purity of her heart, showering down the innocence of her senses, distilling the essence of asceticism, dropping in a liquid form the brightness of her eyes, most pure, falling on her white cheeks like a broken string of pearls, unceasing, splashing on her bosom covered by the bark robe.

‘“While his curiosity was thus increased he felt himself guilty of recalling her grief, and rising, brought in his folded hand from the torrent some water to bathe her face. But she, though the torrent of her tears was in nowise checked by his gentleness, yet bathed her reddened eyes, and drying her face with the edge of her bark robe, slowly said with a long and bitter sigh:

‘“‘As I thus bent, the irresistible command of love, the inspiration of the spring, the charm of the place, the frowardness of youth, the unsteadiness of the senses, (287) the impatient longing for earthly goods, the fickleness of the mind, the destiny that rules events—in a word, my own cruel fate, and the fact that all my trouble was caused by him, were the means by which Love destroyed his firmness by the sight of my feeling, and made him waver towards me like a flame in the wind. He too was visibly thrilled, as if to welcome the newly-entering Love; his sighs went before him to show the way to his mind which was hastening towards me; the rosary in his hand trembled and shook, fearing the breaking of his vow; drops rose on his cheek, like a second garland hanging from his ear; his eyes, as his pupils dilated and his glance widened in the joy of beholding me, turned the spot to a very lotus-grove, so that the ten regions were filled by the long rays coming forth like masses of open lotuses that had of their own accord left the Acchoda lake and were rising to the sky.

‘“‘By the manifest change in him my love was redoubled, and I fell that moment into a state I cannot describe, all unworthy of my caste. “Surely,” I reflected, “Kāma himself teaches this play of the eye, though generally after a long happy love, else whence comes this ascetic’s gaze? (288) For his mind is unversed in the mingled feelings of earthly joys, and yet his eyes, though they have never learnt the art, pour forth the stream of love’s sweetness, rain nectar, are half closed by joy, are slow with distress, heavy with sleep, roaming with pupils tremulous and languid with the weight of gladness, and yet bright with the play of his eyebrows. Whence comes this exceeding skill that tells the heart’s longing wordlessly by a glance alone?”

‘“‘Impelled by these thoughts I advanced, and bowing to the second young ascetic, his companion, I asked: “What is the name of his Reverence? Of what ascetic is he the son? From what tree is this garland woven? For its scent, hitherto unknown, and of rare sweetness, kindles great curiosity in me.”

‘“‘With a slight smile, he replied: “Maiden, what needs this question? But I will enlighten thy curiosity. Listen!

(292) ‘“‘Meanwhile, the second young ascetic, seeing that he was losing his self-control, gently upbraided him: “Dear Puṇḍarīka, this is unworthy of thee. This is the way trodden by common men. For the good are rich in self-control. Why dost thou, like a man of low caste, fail to restrain the turmoil of thy soul? Whence comes this hitherto unknown assault of the senses, which so transforms thee? Where is thine old firmness? Where thy conquest of the senses? Where thy self-control? Where thy calm of mind, thine inherited holiness, thy carelessness of earthly things? Where the teaching of thy guru, thy learning of the Vedas, thy resolves of asceticism, thy hatred of pleasure, thine aversion to vain delights, thy passion for penance, thy distaste for enjoyments, thy rule over the impulses of youth? Verily all knowledge is fruitless, study of holy books is useless, initiation has lost its meaning, pondering the teaching of gurus avails not, proficiency is worthless, learning leads to nought, since even men like thee are stained by the touch of passion, and overcome by folly. (293) Thou dost not even see that thy rosary has fallen from thy hand, and has been carried away. Alas! how good sense fails in men thus struck down. Hold back this heart of thine, for this worthless girl is seeking to carry it away.”

‘“‘To these words he replied, with some shame: “Dear Kapiñjala, why dost thou thus misunderstand me? I am not one to endure this reckless girl’s offence in taking my rosary!” and with his moonlike face beautiful in its feigned wrath, and adorned the more by the dread frown he tried to assume, while his lip trembled with longing to kiss me, he said to me, “Playful maiden, thou shalt not move a step from this place without giving back my rosary.” Thereupon I loosed from my neck a single row of pearls as the flower-offering that begins a dance in Kāma’s honour, and placed it in his outstretched hand, while his eyes were fixed on my face, and his mind was far away. I started to bathe, but how I started I know not, for my mother and my companions could hardly lead me away by force, like a river driven backwards, and I went home thinking only of him.

(294) ‘“‘And entering the maidens’ dwelling, I began straightway to ask myself in my grief at his loss: “Am I really back, or still there? Am I alone, or with my maidens? Am I silent, or beginning to speak? Am I awake or asleep? Do I weep or hold back my tears? Is this joy or sorrow, longing or despair, misfortune or gladness, day or night? Are these things pleasures or pains?” All this I understood not. In my ignorance of Love’s course, I knew not whither to go, what to do, hear, see, or speak, whom to tell, nor what remedy to seek. Entering the maidens’ palace, I dismissed my friends at the door, and shut out my attendants, and then, putting aside all my occupations, I stood alone with my face against the jewelled window. I gazed at the region which, in its possession of him, was richly decked, endowed with great treasure, overflowed by the ocean of nectar, adorned with the rising of the full moon, and most fair to behold, I longed to ask his doings even of the breeze wafted from thence, or of the scent of the woodland flowers, or of the song of the birds. (295) I envied even the toils of penance for his devotion to them. For his sake, in the blind adherence of love, I took a vow of silence. I attributed grace to the ascetic garb, because he accepted it, beauty to youth because he owned it, charm to the pārijāta flower because it touched his ear, delight to heaven because he dwelt there, and invincible power to love because he was so fair. Though far away, I turned towards him as the lotus-bed to the sun, the tide to the moon, or the peacock to the cloud. I bore on my neck his rosary, like a charm against the loss of the life stricken by his absence. I stood motionless, though a thrill made the down on my cheek like a kadamba flower ear-ring, as it rose from the joy of being touched by his hand, and from the pārijāta spray in my ear, which spoke sweetly to me of him.

‘“‘Now my betel-bearer, Taralikā, had been with me to bathe; she came back after me rather late, and softly addressed me in my sadness: “Princess, one of those godlike ascetics we saw on the bank of Lake Acchoda—(296) he by whom this spray of the heavenly tree was placed in thy ear—as I was following thee, eluded the glance of his other self, and approaching me with soft steps between the branches of a flowering creeper, asked me concerning thee, saying, ‘Damsel, who is this maiden? Whose daughter is she? What is her name? And whither goes she?’ I replied: ‘She is sprung from Gaurī, an Apsaras of the moon race, and her father Haṃsa is king of all the Gandharvas; the nails of his feet are burnished by the tips of the jewelled aigrettes on the turbans of all the Gandharvas; his tree-like arms are marked by the cosmetics on the cheeks of his Gandharva wives, and the lotus-hand of Lakshmī forms his footstool. The princess is named Mahāçvetā, and she has set out now for the hill of Hemakūṭa, the abode of the Gandharvas.’