Of countless hues, with gallant companies Of fighting men. And those high-hearted chiefs The strong-armed King welcomed with worship fair, As fitted each, and led them to their seats. Now at that hour there passed towards Indra's heaven, Thither from earth ascending, those twain saints— The wise, the pure, the mighty-minded ones, The self-restrained—Narad and Parvata. The mansion of the Sovereign of the Gods In honor entered they; and he, the Lord Of Clouds, dread Indra, softly them salutes, Inquiring of their weal, and of the world Wherethrough their name was famous, how it fares. Then Narad said: "Well is it, Lord of Gods, With us, and with our world; and well with those Who rule the peoples, O thou King in Heaven!" But He that slew the Demons spake again:— "The princes of the earth, just-minded, brave, Those who, in battle fearing not to fall, See death on the descending blade, and charge Full front against it, turning not their face— Theirs is this realm eternal, as to me The cow of plenty, Kamadhuk, belongs. Where be my Kshatriya warriors? Wherefore now See I none coming of those slaughtered lords, Chiefs of mankind, our always honored guests?" And unto Indra Narad gave reply:— "King of the Air! no wars are waged below; None fall in fight, to enter here. The Lord Of high Vidarbha hath a daughter, famed For loveliness beyond all earthly maids, The Princess Damayanti, far-renowned. Of her, dread Sakra! the Swayamvara Shall soon befall, and thither now repair The kings and princes of all lands, to woo— Each for himself—this pearl of womanhood. For oh, thou Slayer of the Demons, all Desire the maid." Drew round, while Narad spake, The Masters, th'Immortals, pressing in With Agni and the Greatest, near the throne, To listen to the speech of Narada; Whom having heard, all cried delightedly, "We, too, will go." Thereupon those high gods, With chariots, and with heavenly retinues, Sped to Vidarbha, where the kings were met. And Nala, knowing of this kingly tryst, Went thither joyous, heart-full with the thought Of Damayanti. Thus it chanced the gods Beheld the Prince wending along his road, Goodly of mien, as is the Lord of Love. The world's Protectors saw him, like a sun For splendor; and, in very wonder, paused Some time irresolute, so fair he was; Then in mid-sky their golden chariots stayed, And through the clouds descending called to him:— "Abo! Nala of Nishadha! Noblest Prince, Be herald for us; bear our message now." "Yea!" Nala made reply, "this will I do"— And then—palm unto palm in reverence pressed— Asked: "Shining Ones, who are ye? Unto whom, And what words bearing, will ye that I go? Deign to instruct me what it is ye bid." Thus the Prince spake, and Indra answered him:— "Thou seest th'immortal gods. Indra am I, And this is Agni, and the other here, Varuna, Lord of Waters; and beyond, Yama, the King of Death, who parteth souls From mortal frames. To Damayanti go; Tell our approach. Say this: 'The world's dread lords, Wishful to see thee, come; desiring thee— Indra, Varuna, Agni, Yama, all. Choose of these powers to which thou wilt be given.'" But Nala, hearing that, joined palms again, And cried: "Ah, send me not, with one accord For this, most mighty Gods! How should a man Sue for another, being suitor too? How bear such errand? Have compassion, Gods!" Then spake they: "Yet thou saidst, 'This shall I do,' Nishadha's Prince! and wilt thou do it not, Forswearing faith? Nay, but depart, and soon!" So bid, but lingering yet again, he said:— "Well guarded are the gates; how shall I find Speech with her?" "Thou shalt find," Indra replied. And, lo! upon that word Nala was brought To Damayanti's chamber. There he saw Vidarbha's glory, sitting 'mid her maids, In majesty and grace surpassing all; So exquisite, so delicate of form, Waist so fine-turned, such limbs, such lighted eyes, The moon hath meaner radiance than she. Love at the sight of that soft smiling face Sprang to full passion, while he stood and gazed. Yet, faith and duty urging, he restrained His beating heart; but when those beauteous maids Spied Nala, from their cushions they uprose, Startled to see a man, yet startled more Because he showed so heavenly bright and fair. In wondering pleasure each saluted him, Uttering no sound, but murmuring to themselves:— "Aho! the grace of him: aho! the brilliance; Aho! what glorious strength lives in his limbs! What is he? Is he God, Gandharva, Yaksha?" But this unspoken, for they dared not breathe One syllable, all standing shyly there To see him, and to see his youth so sweet. Yet, softly glancing back to his soft glance, The Princess, presently, with fluttering breath, Accosted Nala, saying: "Fairest Prince, Who by thy faultless form hath filled my heart With sudden joy, coming as come the gods, Unstayed, I crave to know thee, who thou art; How didst thou enter? how wert thou unseen? Our palace is close-guarded, and the King Hath issued mandates stern." Tenderly spake The Prince, replying to those tender words:— "Most lovely! I am Nala. I am come A herald of the gods unto thee here. The gods desire thee, the immortal Four— Indra, Varuna, Yama, Agni. Choose, O Brightest! one from these to be thy lord. By their help is it I have entered in Unseen; none could behold me at thy gates, Nor stay me, passing; and to speak their will They sent me, fairest one and best. Do thou, Knowing the message, judge as seemeth well." She bowed her head, hearing the great gods named, And then, divinely smiling, said to him:— "Pledge thyself faithfully to me, and I Will seek, O Raja, only how to pay That debt with all I am, with all I have; For I and mine are thine—in full trust thine. Make me that promise, Prince. Thy gentle name— Sung by the swan—first set my thoughts afire; And for thy sake—only for thee—sweet Lord, The kings were summoned hither. If, alas! Fair Prince, thou dost reject my sudden love, So proffered, then must poison, flame, or flood, Or knitted cord, be my sad remedy." So spake Vidarbha's Pride; and Nala said:— "With gods so waiting—with the world's dread lords Hastening to woo, canst thou desire a man? Bethink! I, unto these, that make and mar, These all-wise ones, almighty, am like dust Under their feet: lift thy heart to the height Of what I bring. If mortal man offend The most high gods, death is what springs of it. Spare me to live, thou faultless lady! Choose Which of these excellent great gods thou wilt; Wear the unstained robes! bear on thy brows The wreaths which never fade, of heavenly blooms! Be, as thou mayest, a goddess, and enjoy Godlike delights! Him who enfolds the earth, Creating and consuming, Brightest Power, Hutasa, Eater of the Sacrifice, What woman would not take? Or him whose rod Herds all the generations forward still On virtue's path, Red Yama, King of Death, What woman would affront? Or him, the all-good, All-wise destroyer of the Demons, first In heaven, Mahendra—who of womankind Is there that would not wed? Or, if thy mind Incline, doubt not to choose Varuna; he Is of these world-protectors. From a heart Full friendly cometh what I tell thee now." Unto Nishadha's Prince the maid replied— Tears of distress dimming her lustrous eyes—- "Humbly I reverence these mighty gods; But thee I choose, and thee I take for lord; And this I vow!" With folded palms she stood, And trembling lips, while his faint answer fell:— "Sent on such embassy, how shall I dare Speak, sweetest Princess, for myself to thee? Bound by my promise for the gods to sue, How can I be a suitor for myself? Silence is here my duty; afterwards, If I shall come, in mine own name I'll come, Mine own cause pleading. Ah, might that so be!" Checking her tears, Damayanti sadly smiled, And said full soft: "One way of hope I see, A blameless way, O Lord of men! wherefrom No fault shall rise, nor any danger fall. Thou also, Prince, with Indra and these gods, Must enter in where my Swayamvara Is held; then I, in presence of those gods, Will choose thee, dearest, for my lord; and so Blame shall not light on thee," With which sweet words Soft in his ears, Nishadha straight returned There where the gods were gathered, waiting him; Whom the world's masters, on his way, perceived, And, spying, questioned, asking for his news:— "Saw'st thou her, Prince? Didst see the sweet-lipped one? What spake she of us? Tell us true; tell all!" Quoth Nala: "By your worshipful behest Sent to her house, the great gates entered I, Though the gray porters watched; but none might spy My entering, by your power, O radiant Ones, Saving the Raja's daughter; her I saw Amid her maidens, and by them was seen. On me with much amazement they did gaze Whilst I your high Divinities extolled. But she that hath the lovely face, with mind Set upon me, hath chosen me, ye Gods. For thus she spake, my Princess: 'Let them come, And come thou, like a lordly tiger, too, Unto the place of my Swayamvara; There will I choose thee in their presence, Prince, To be my lord; and so there will not fall Blame, thou strong-armed! to thee,' This she did say Even as I tell it; and what shall be next, To will is yours, O ye immortal Ones!" Soon, when the moon was good, and day and hour Were found propitious, Bhima, King of men, Summoned the chiefs to the Swayamvara; Upon which message all those eager lords For love of Damayanti hastened there. Glorious with gilded pillars was the court, Whereto a gate-house opened, and thereby Into the square, like lions from the hills, Paced the proud guests; and there their seats they took, Each in his rank, the masters of the lands, With crowns of fragrant blossoms garlanded, And polished jewels swinging in their ears. Of some the thews, knitted and rough, stood forth Like iron maces; some had slender limbs, Sleek and fine-turned like the five-headed snake; Lords with long-flowing hair; glittering lords; High-nosed, and eagle-eyed, and heavy-browed; The faces of those kings shone in a ring As shine at night the stars; and that great square As thronged with Rajas was as Naga-land Is full of serpents; thick with warlike chiefs As mountain-caves with panthers. Unto these Entered, in matchless majesty of form, The Princess Damayanti. As she came, The glory of her ravished eyes and hearts, So that the gaze of all those haughty kings, Fastening upon her loveliness, grew fixed— Not moving save with her—step after step Onward and always following the maid. But while the styles and dignities of all Were cried aloud (O son of Bharat!), lo! The Princess marked five of that throng alike In form and garb and visage. There they stood, Each from the next undifferenced, but each Nala's own self;—yet which might Nala be In nowise could that doubting maid descry. Who took her eye seemed Nala while she gazed, Until she looked upon his like; and so Pondered the lovely lady, sore-perplexed, Thinking, "How shall I tell which be the gods, And which is noble Nala?" Deep-distressed And meditative waxed she, musing hard What those signs were, delivered us of old, Whereby gods may be known: "Of all those signs Taught by our elders, lo! I see not one Where stand yon five." So murmured she, and turned Over and over every mark she knew. At last, resolved to make the gods themselves Her help at need, with reverent air and voice Humbly saluted she those heavenly ones, And with joined palms and trembling accents spake:— "As, when I heard the swans, I chose my Prince, By that sincerity I call ye, Gods, To show my Love to me and make me know! As in my heart and soul and speech I stand True to my choice, by that sincerity I call the all-knowing gods to make me know! As the high gods created Nishadha's chief To be my lord, by their sincerity I bid them show themselves, and make me know! As my vow, sealed to him, must be maintained For his name, and for mine, I call the gods By such sincerity to make me know! Let them appear, the masters of the world— The high gods—each one in his proper shape, That I may see Nishadha's chief, my choice, Whom minstrels praise, and Damayanti loves." Hearing that earnest speech—so passion-fraught, So full of truth, of strong resolve, of love, Of singleness of soul and constancy— Even as she spake, the gods disclosed themselves. By well-seen signs the effulgent Ones she knew. Shadowless stood they, with unwinking eyes, And skins which never moist with sweat; their feet Light-gliding o'er the ground, not touching it; The unfading blossoms on their brows not soiled By earthly dust, but ever fair and fresh. Whilst, by their side, garbed so and visaged so, But doubled by his shadow, stained with dust, The flower-cups wiltering in his wreath, his skin Pearly with sweat, his feet upon the earth, And eyes a-wink, stood Nala. One by one Glanced she on those divinities, then bent Her gaze upon the Prince, and, joyous, said:— "I know thee, and I name my rightful lord, Taking Nishadha's chief." Therewith she drew Modestly nigh, and held him by the cloth, With large eyes beaming love, and round his neck Hung the bright chaplet, love's delicious crown; So choosing him—him only—whom she named Before the face of all to be her lord. Oh, then brake forth from all those suitors proud, "Ha!" and "Aho!" But from the gods and saints, "Sadhu! well done! well done!" And all admired The happy Prince, praising the grace of him; While Virasena's son, delightedly, Spake to the slender-waisted these fond words:— "Fair Princess! since, before all gods and men, Thou makest me thy choice, right glad am I Of this thy mind, and true lord will I be. For so long, loveliest, as my breath endures, Thine am I! Thus I plight my troth to thee." So, with joined palms, unto that beauteous maid His gentle faith he pledged, rejoicing her; And, hand in hand, radiant with mutual love, Before great Agni and the gods they passed, The world's protectors worshipping. Then those, The lords of life, the powerful Ones, bestowed— Being well-pleased—on Nala, chosen so, Eight noble boons. The boon which Indra gave Was grace, at times of sacrifice, to see The visible god approach, with step divine; And Agni's boon was this, that he would come Whenever Nala called—for everywhere Hutasa shineth, and all worlds are his; Yama gave skill in cookery, steadfastness In virtue; and Varuna, King of Floods, Bade all the waters ripple at his call. These boons the high gods doubled by the gift Of bright wreaths wove with magic blooms of heaven; And those bestowed, ascended to their seats. Also with wonder and with joy returned The Rajas and the Maharajas all, Full of the marriage-feast; for Bhima made, In pride and pleasure, stately nuptials; So Damayanti and the Prince were wed. Then, having tarried as is wont, that lord— Nishadha's chief—took the King's leave, and went Unto his city, bringing home with him His jewel of all womanhood, with whom Blissful he lived, as lives by Sachi's side The slayer of the Demons. Like a sun Shone Nala on his throne, ruling his folk In strength and virtue, guardian of his state. Also the Aswamedha Rite he made Greatest of rites, the Offering of the Horse, As did Yayati; and all other acts Of worship; and to sages gave rich gifts. Many dear days of much delicious love, In pleasant gardens and in shadowy groves, Passed they together, sojourning like gods. And Damayanti bore unto her lord A boy named Indrasen, and next, a girl Named Indrasena. So in happiness The good Prince governed, seeing all his lands Wealthy and well, in piety and peace. Now at the choosing of Nishadha's chief By Bhima's daughter, when those lords of life— The effulgent gods—departed, Dwapara They saw with Kali, coming. Indra said— The Demon-slayer—spying these approach:— "Whither, with Dwapara, goest thou to-day, O Kali?" And the sombre Shade replied:— "To Damayanti's high Swayamvara I go, to make her mine, since she hath passed Into my heart." But Indra, laughing, said:— "Ended is that Swayamvara; for she Hath taken Raja Nala for her lord, Before us all," But Kali, hearing this, Breaks into wrath—while he stood worshipping That band divine—and furiously cries:— "If she hath set a man above the gods, To wed with him, for such sin let there fall Doom, rightful, swift, and terrible, on her!" "Nay," answered unto him those heavenly ones, "But Damayanti chose with our good-will; And what maid but would choose so fair a prince, Seeing he hath all qualities, and knows Virtue, and rightly practises the vows, And reads the four great Vedas, and, what's next, The Holy Stories, whilst, perpetually, The gods are honored in his house with gifts? No hurt he does, kind to all living things; True of word is he, faithful, liberal, just; Steadfast and patient, temperate and pure; A king of men is Nala, like the gods. He that would curse a prince of such a mould, Thou foolish Kali, lays upon himself A sin to crush himself; the curse comes back And sinks him in the bottomless vast gulf Of Narak." Thus the gods to Kali spake, And mounted heavenward; whereupon that Shade, Frowning, to Dwapara burst forth: "My rage Beareth no curb. Henceforth in Nala I Will dwell; his kingdom I will make to fall; His bliss with Damayanti I will mar; And thou within the dice shalt enter straight, And help me, Dwapara! to drag him down," Into which compact entering, those repaired— Kali and Dwapara—to Nala's house, And haunted in Nishadha, where he ruled, Seeking occasion 'gainst the blameless Prince. Long watched they; twelve years rolled ere Kali saw The fateful fault arrive; Nishadha's Lord, Easing himself, and sprinkling hands and lips With purifying water, passed to prayer, His feet unwashed, offending. Kali straight Possessed the heedless Raja, entering him. That hour there sat with Nala, Pushkara His brother; and the evil spirit hissed Into the ear of Pushkara: "Ehi! Arise, and challenge Nala at the dice. Throw with the Prince! it may be thou shalt win (Luck helping thee, and I) Nishadha's throne, Town, treasures, palace—thou mayest gain them all." And Pushkara, hearing Kali's evil voice, Made near to Nala, with the dice in hand (A great piece for the "Bull," and little ones For "Cows," and Kali hiding in the Bull). So Pushkara came to Nala's side and said:— "Play with me, brother, at the 'Cows and Bull';" And, being put off, cried mockingly, "Nay, play!" Shaming the Prince, whose spirit chafed to leave A gage unfaced; but when Vidarbha's gem, The Princess, heard that challenge, Nala rose: "Yea, Pushkara, I will play!" fiercely he said; And to the game addressed. His gems he lost, Armlets and belt and necklet; next the gold Of the palace and its vessels; then the cars Yoked with swift steeds; and last, the royal robes: For, cast by cast, the dice against him fell, Bewitched by Kali; and, cast after cast, The passion of the dice kept hold on him, Until not one of all his faithfullest Could stay the madman's hand and gamester's heart Of who was named "Subduer of his Foes." The townsmen gathered with the ministers: Into that palace gate they thronged (my King!) To see their lord, if so they might abate This sickness of his soul. The charioteer, Forth standing from their midst, low worshipping, Spake thus to Damayanti: "Great Princess, Before thy door all the grieved city sits. Say to our lord for us, 'Thy folk are here; They mourn that evil fortunes hold their liege, Who was so high and just,'" Then she, deject, Passed in, and to Nishadha's ruler said, Her soft voice broken, and her bright eyes dimmed:— "Raja, the people of thy town are here; Before our gates they gather, citizens And counsellors, desiring speech with thee; In lealty they come. Wilt thou be pleased We open to them? Wilt thou?" So she asked Again and yet again; but not one word To that sad lady with the lovely brows Did Nala answer, wholly swallowed up Of Kali and the gaming; so that those— The citizens and counsellors—cried out, "Our lord is changed! He is not Nala now!" And home returned, ashamed and sorrowful; Whilst ceaselessly endured that foolish play Moon after moon—the Prince the loser still. Then Damayanti, seeing so estranged Her lord, the praised in song, the chief of men, Watching, all self-possessed, his fantasy, And how the gaming held him; sad, and 'feared, The heavy fortunes pondering of her Prince; Hating the fault, but to the offender kind; And fearing Nala should be stripped of all, This thing devised: Vrihatsena she called— Her foster-nurse and faithful ministrant— True, skilful at all service, soft of speech, Kind-hearted; and she said, "Vrihatsena, Go call the ministers to council now, As though 'twere Nala bade; and make them count What store is gone of treasure, what abides." So went Vrihatsena, and summoned those; And when they knew all things, as from the Prince, "Truly we, too, shall perish!" cried they then; And all to Nala went, and all the town, A second time assembling, thronged his gates:— Which Bhima's daughter told; but not one word Answered the Prince. And when she saw her lord Put by her plea, utterly slighting it, Back to her chamber, full of shame, she goes, And there still hears the dice are falling ill; Still hears of Nala daily losing more; So that again unto her nurse she spake:— "Send to Varshneya, good Vrihatsena; Say to the charioteer—in Nala's name— 'A great thing is to do. Come thou!'" And this— So soon as Damayanti uttered it— Vrihatsena, by faithful servants, told Unto the son of Vrishni, who, being come In fitting time and place, heard the sweet Queen In mournful music speak these wistful words:— "Thou knowest how thy Raja trusted thee; Now he hath fall'n on evil; succor him! The more that Pushkara conquers in the play, The wilder rage of gaming takes thy lord— The more for Pushkara the dice light well, More contrary they happen to the Prince: Nor heeds he, as were meet, kindred or friends; Nay, of myself he putteth by the prayer Unanswered, being bewitched; for well I deem This is not noble-minded Nala's sin, But some ill spell possesseth him to shut His ears to me. Thou, therefore, charioteer! Our refuge be; do what I shall command; My heart is dark with fear. Yea, it may fall Our lord will perish. Wherefore, harnessing His chosen steeds, which fly as swift as thought. Take these our children in the chariot And drive to Kundina, delivering there Unto my kin the little ones, and car, And horses. Afterwards abide thou there, Or otherwhere depart." Varshneya heard The words of Damayanti, and forthwith In Nala's council-hall recounted them, The chief men being present; who, thus met, And long debating, gave him leave to go. So with that royal pair to Bhima's town Drove he, and at Vidarbha rendered up, Together with the swift steeds and the car, That sweet maid Indrasena, and the Prince Indrasen, and made reverence to the King, Saddened for sake of Nala. Afterwards Taking his leave, unto Ayodhya Varshneya went, exceeding sorrowful, And with King Rituparna (O my Prince!) Took service as a charioteer. These gone— The praised-of-poets, Nala, still played on, Till Pushkara his kingdom's wealth had won, And whatso was to lose beside. Thereat With scornful laugh mocked he that beggared Prince, Saying, "One other throw; once more!—Yet sooth, What canst thou stake? Nothing is left for thee Save Damayanti; all the rest is mine. Play we for Damayanti, if thou wilt." But hearing this from Pushkara, the Prince So in his heart by grief and shame was torn, No word he uttered—only glared in wrath Upon his mocker, upon Pushkara. Then, his rich robes and jewels stripping off, Uncovered, with one cloth, 'mid waiting friends Sorrowful passed he forth, his great state gone; The Princess, with one garment, following him, Piteous to see. And there without the gates Three nights they lay—Nashadha's King and Queen. Upon the fourth day Pushkara proclaimed, Throughout the city, "Whoso yieldeth help To Nala, dieth! Let my will be known!" So, for this bitter word of Pushkara's power (O Yudhisthir!) the townsmen rendered not Service nor love, but left them outcast there, Unhelped, whom all the city should have helped. Yet three nights longer tarried he, his drink The common pool, his meat such fruits and roots As miserable hunger plucks from earth: Then fled they from those walls, the Prince going first, The Princess following. After grievous days, Pinched ever with sharp famine, Nala saw A flock of gold-winged birds lighting anigh, And to himself the famished Raja said:— "Lo! here is food; this day we shall have store;" Then lightly cast his cloth and covered them. But these, fluttering aloft, bore with them there Nala's one cloth; and, hovering overhead, Uttered sharp-stinging words, reviling him Even as he stood, naked to all the airs, Downcast and desperate: "Thou brain-sick Prince! We are the dice; we come to ravish hence Thy last poor cloth; we were not well content Thou shouldst depart owning a garment still." And when he saw the dice take wings and fly, Leaving him bare, to Damayanti spake This melancholy Prince: "O Blameless One, They by whose malice I am driven forth, Finding no sustenance, sad, famine-gaunt— They whose decree forbade Nishadha's folk Should succor me, their Raja—these have come— Demon and dice—and like to winged birds Have borne away my cloth. To such shame fall'n, Such utmost woe, wretched, demented—I Thy lord am still, and counsel thee for good. Attend! Hence be there many roads which go Southwards: some pass Avanti's walls, and some Skirt Rikshavan, the forest of the bears; This wends to Vindhya's lofty peaks, and this To the green banks where quick Payoshni runs Seaward, between her hermitages, rich In fruits and roots; and yon path leadeth thee Unto Vidarbha; that to Kosala, And therefrom southward—southward—far away." So spake he to the Princess wistfully, Between his words pointing along the paths, Which she should take (O King!). But Bhima's child Made answer, bowed with grief, her soft voice choked With sobs, these piteous accents uttering:— "My heart beats quick; my body's force is gone, Thinking, dear Prince, on this which thou hast said, Pointing along the paths. What! robbed of realm, Stripped of thy wealth, bare, famished, parched with thirst, Thus shall I leave thee in the untrodden wood? Ah, no! While thou dost muse on dear days fled, Hungry and weeping, I in this wild waste Will charm thy griefs away, solacing thee. The wisest doctors say, 'In every woe No better physic is than wifely love,' And, Nala, I will make it true to thee." "Thou mak'st it true," he said; "thou sayest well, Sweet Damayanti; neither is there friend To sad men given better than a wife. I had not thought to leave thee, foolish Love! Why didst thou fear? Alas, 't is from myself That I would fly—not thee, thou Faultless One!" "Yet, if," the Princess answered, "Maharaja! Thou hadst no thought to leave me, why by thee Was the way pointed to Vidarbha's walls? I know thou wouldst not quit me, noblest Lord, Being thyself, but only if thy mind Were sore distraught; and see, thou gazest still Along the southward road, my dread thereby Increasing, thou that wert as are the gods! If it be thy fixed thought, 'Twere best she went Unto her people'—be it so; I go; But hand in hand with thee. Thus let us fare Unto Vidarbha, where the King, my sire, Will greet thee well, and honor thee; and we Happy and safe within his gates shall dwell." "As is thy father's kingdom," Nala said, "So, once, was mine. Be sure, whatever betide, Never will I go thither! How, in sooth, Should I, who came there glorious, gladdening thee, Creep back, thy shame and scorn, disconsolate?" So to sweet Damayanti spake the Prince, Beguiling her, whom now one cloth scarce clad— For but one garb they shared; and thus they strayed Hither and thither, faint for meat and drink, Until a little hut they spied; and there, Nishadha's monarch, entering, sat him down On the bare ground, the Princess by his side— Vidarbha's glory, wearing that scant cloth, Without a mat, soiled by the dust and mire. At Damayanti's side he sank asleep, Outworn; and beauteous Damayanti slept, Spent with strange trials—- she so gently reared, So soft and holy. But while slumbering thus, No peaceful rest knew Nala. Trouble-tossed He woke, forever thinking of his realm Lost, lieges estranged, and all the griefs Of that wild wood. These on his heart came back, And, "What if I shall do it? What, again, If I shall do it not?" So murmured he. "Would death be better, or to leave my Love? For my sake she endures this woe, my fate Too fondly sharing; freed from me, her steps Would turn unto her people. At my side, Sure suffering is her portion; but apart, It might be she would somewhere comfort find." Thus with himself debating o'er and o'er, The Prince resolves abandonment were best. "For how," saith he, "should any in the wood Harm her, so radiant in her grace, so good, So noble, virtuous, faithful, famous, pure?" Thus mused his miserable mind, seduced By Kali's cursed mischiefs to betray His sleeping wife. Then, seeing his loin-cloth gone, And Damayanti clad, he drew anigh, Thinking to take of hers, and muttering, "May I not rend one fold, and she not know?" So meditating, round the cabin crept Prince Nala, feeling up and down its walls; And, presently, within the purlieus found A naked knife, keen-tempered; therewithal Shred he away a piece, and bound it on; Then made with desperate steps to seek the waste, Leaving the Princess sleeping; but, anon, Turns back again in changeful mood and glides Into the hut, and, gazing wistfully On slumbering Damayanti, moans with tears:— "Ah, Sweetheart! whom nor wind nor sun before Hath ever rudely touched; thou to be couched In this poor hut, its floor thy bed, and I, Thy lord, deserting thee, stealing from thee Thy last robe! O my Love with the bright smile, My slender-waisted Queen! Will she not wake To madness? Yea, and when she wanders lone In the dark wood, haunted with beasts and snakes, How will it fare with Bhima's tender child, The bright and peerless? O my life, my wife! May the great sun, may the Eight Powers of air, The Rudras, Maruts, and the Aswins twain, Guard thee, thou true and dear one, on thy way!" So to his sleeping Queen—on all the earth Unmatched for beauty—spake he piteously; Then breaks away once more, by Kali driven. But yet another and another time Stole back into the hut, for one last gaze— That way by Kali dragged, this way by love. Two hearts he had—the trouble-stricken Prince— One beating "Go," one throbbing "Stay"; and thus Backwards and forwards swung his mind between, Till, mastered by the sorrow and the spell, Frantic flies Nala, leaving there alone That tender-sleeper, sighing as she slept. He flies—the soulless prey of Kali flies; Still, while he hurries through the forest drear, Thinking upon that sweet face he hath left. Far distant (King!) was Nala, when, refreshed, The slender-waisted wakened, shuddering At the wood's silence; but when, seeking him, She found no Nala, sudden anguish seized Her frightened heart, and, lifting high her voice, Loud cries she: "Maharaja! Nishadha's Prince! Ha, Lord! ha, Maharaja! ha, Master! why Hast thou abandoned me? Now am I lost, Am doomed, undone, left in this lonesome gloom. Wert thou not named, O Nala, true and just? Yet art thou such, to quit me while I slept? And hast thou so forsaken me, thy wife— Thine own fond wife—who never wrought thee wrong When by all others wrong was wrought on thee? Mak'st thou it good to me, now, Lord of men, That love which long ago before the gods Thou didst proclaim? Alas! Death will not come, Except at his appointed time to men, And therefore for a little I shall live, Whom thou hast lived to leave. Nay, 't is a jest! Ah, Truant, Runaway, enough thou play'st! Come forth, my Lord!—I am afraid! Come forth! Linger not, for I see—I spy thee there; Thou art within yon thicket! Why not speak One word, Nishadha? Nala, cruel Prince! Thou know'st me, lone, and comest not to calm My terrors, and be with me in my need. Art gone indeed? Then I'll not mourn myself, For whatso may befall me; I must think How desolate thou art, and weep for thee. What wilt thou do, thirsty and hungry, spent With wandering, when, at nightfall, 'mid the trees Thou hast me not, sweet Prince, to comfort thee?" Thereat, distracted by her bitter fears, Like one whose heart is fire, forward and back She runs, hither and thither, weeping, wild. One while she sinks to earth, one while she springs Quick to her feet; now utterly overcome By fear and fasting, now by grief driven mad, Wailing and sobbing; till anon, with moans And broken sighs and tears, Bhima's fair child, The ever-faithful wife, speaks thus again:— "By whomsoever's spell this harm hath fall'n On Nishadha's Lord, I pray that evil one May bear a bitterer plague than Nala doth! To him, whoever set my guileless Prince On these ill deeds, I pray some direr might May bring far darker days, and life to live More miserable still!" Thus, woe-begone, Mourned that great-hearted wife her vanished lord, Seeking him ever in the gloomy shades, By wild beasts haunted. Roaming everywhere, Like one possessed, frantic, disconsolate, Went Bhima's daughter. "Ha, ha! Maharaja!" So crying runs she, so in every place Is heard her ceaseless wail, as when is heard The fish-hawk's cry, which screams, and circling screams, And will not stint complaining. Suddenly, Straying too near his den, a serpent's coils Seized Bhima's daughter. A prodigious snake, Glittering and strong, and furious for food, Knitted about the Princess. She, o'erwhelmed With horror, and the cold enfolding death, Spends her last breaths in pitiful laments For Nala, not herself. "Ah, Prince!" she cried, "That would have saved me, who must perish now, Seized in the lone wood by this hideous snake, Why art thou not beside me? What will be Thy thought, Nishadha! me remembering In days to come, when, from the curse set free, Thou hast thy noble mind again, thyself, Thy wealth—all save thy wife? Then thou'lt be sad, Be weary, wilt need food and drink; but I Shall minister no longer. Who will tend My Love, my Lord, my Lion among kings, My blameless Nala—Damayanti dead?" That hour a hunter, roving through the brake, Heard her bewailing, and with quickened steps Made nigh, and, spying a woman, almond-eyed, Lovely, forlorn, by that fell monster knit, He ran, and, as he came, with keen shaft clove, Through gaping mouth and crown, th'unwitting worm, Slaying it. Then the woodman from its folds Freed her, and laved the snake's slime from her limbs With water of the pool, comforting her And giving food; and afterwards (my King!) Inquiry made: "What doest, in this wood, Thou with the fawn's eyes? And how earnest thou, My mistress, to such pit of misery?" And Damayanti, spoken fair by him, Recounted all which had befallen her. But, gazing on her graces, scantly clad With half a cloth, those smooth, full sides, those breasts Beauteously swelling, form of faultless mould, Sweet youthful face, fair as the moon at full, And dark orbs, by long curving lashes swept; Hearing her tender sighs and honeyed speech, The hunter fell to hot desire; he dared Essay to woo, with whispered words at first, And next by amorous approach, the Queen; Who, presently perceiving what he would, And all that baseness of him—being so pure, So chaste, and faithful—like a blazing torch Took fire of scorn and anger 'gainst the man, Her true soul burning at him, till the wretch, Wicked in heart, but impotent of will, Glared on her, splendidly invincible In weakness, loftily defying wrong, A living flame of lighted chastity. She then—albeit so desolate, so lone, Abandoned by her lord, stripped of her state— Like a proud princess stormed, flinging away All terms of supplication, cursing him With wrath which scorched: "If I am clean in heart And true in thought unto Nishadha's King, Then mayest thou, vile pursuer of the beasts, Sink to the earth, stone dead!" While she did speak, The hunter breathless fell to earth, stone dead, As falls a tree-trunk blasted by the bolt. That ravisher destroyed, the lotus-eyed Fared forward, threading still the fearful wood, Lonely and dim, with trill of jhillikas[22] Resounding, and fierce noise of many beasts Laired in its shade, lions and leopards, deer, Close-hiding tigers, sullen bisons, wolves, And shaggy bears. Also the glades of it Were filled with fowl which crept, or flew, and cried. A home for savage men and murderers, Thick with a world of trees, whereof was sal, Sharp-seeded, weeping gum; knotted bambus, Dhavas with twisted roots; smooth aswatthas, Large-leaved, and creeping through the cloven rocks; Tindukas, iron-fibred, dark of grain; Ingudas, yielding oil; and kinsukas, With scarlet flowerets flaming. Thronging these Were arjuns and arishta-clumps, which bear The scented purple clusters; syandans, And tall silk-cotton trees, and mango-belts With silvery spears; and wild rose-apple, blent 'Mid lodhra-tufts and khadirs, interknit By clinging rattans, climbing everywhere From stem to stem. Therewith were intermixed— Round pools where rocked the lotus—amalaks, Plakshas with fluted leaves, kadambas sweet, Udumbaras; and, on the jungle-edge, Tangles of reed and jujube, whence there rose Bel-trees and nyagrodhas, dropping roots Down from the air; broad-leaved priyalas, palms And date-trees, and the gold myrobalan, With copper-leaved vibhitikas. All these Crowded the wood; and many a crag it held, With precious ore of metals interveined; And many a creeper-covered cave wherein The spoken word rolled round; and many a cleft Where the thick stems were like a wall to see; And many a winding stream and reedy jheel, And glassy lakelet, where the woodland beasts In free peace gathered. Wandering onward thus, The Princess saw far-gliding forms of dread— Pisachas, Rakshasas, ill sprites and fiends Which haunt, with swinging snakes, the undergrowth. Dark pools she saw, and drinking-holes, and peaks Wherefrom break down in tumbling cataracts The wild white waters, marvellous to hear. Also she passed—this daughter of a king— Where snorted the fierce buffaloes, and where The gray boars rooted for their food, and where The black bears growled, and serpents in the grass Rustled and hissed. But all along that way Safe paced she in her majesty of grace, High fortune, courage, constancy, and right— Vidarbha's glory—seeking, all alone, Lost Nala; and less terror at these sights Came to sad Damayanti for herself— Threading this dreadful forest—than for him. Most was her mind on Nala's fate intent. Bitterly grieving stood the sweet Princess Upon a rock, her tender limbs a-thrill With heavy fears for Nala while she spake:— "Broad-chested Chief! my long-armed Lord of men! Nishadha's King! Ah! whither art thou gone. Leaving me thus in the unpeopled wood? The Aswamedha sacrifice thou mad'st, And all the rites and royal gifts hast given, A lion-hearted Prince, holy and true To all save me! That which thou didst declare, Hand in hand with me—once so fond and kind— Recall it now—thy sacred word, thy vow, Whithersoever, Raja, thou art fled. Think how the message of the gold-winged swans Was spoken, by thine own lips, then to me! True men keep faith; this is the teaching taught In Vedas, Angas, and Upangas all, Hear which we may; wilt thou not, therefore, Prince— Wilt thou not, terror of thy foes, keep faith, Making thy promise good to cleave to me? Ha, Nala, Lord! Am I not surely still Thy chosen, thy beloved? Answerest not Thy wife in this dark, horror-haunted shade? The tyrant of the jungle, fierce and fell, With jaws agape to take me, crouches nigh, And thou not here to rescue me—not thou, Who saidst none other in the world was dear But Damayanti! Prove the fond speech true, Uttered so often! Why repliest not To me, thy well-beloved; me, distraught, Longed for and longing; me, my Prince and pride, That am so weary, weak, and miserable, Stained with the mire, in this torn cloth half clad, Alone and weeping, seeing no help near? Ah, stag of all the herd! leav'st thou thy hind Astray, regarding not these tears which roll? My Nala, Maharaja! It is I Who cry, thy Damayanti, true and pure, Lost in the wood, and still thou answerest not! High-born, high-hearted, full of grace and strength In all thy limbs, shall I not find thee soon On yonder hill? Shall I not see, at last, In some track of this grim, beast-peopled wood, Standing, or seated, or upon the leaves Lying, or coming, him who is of men The glory, but for me the grief-maker? If not, whom shall I question, woe-begone, Saying, 'In any region of this wood Hast thou, perchance, seen Nala?' Is there none, In all the forest, would reply to me With tidings of my lord, wandered away, Kingly in mind and form, of hosts of foes The conqueror? Who will say, with blessed voice, 'That Raja with the lotus-eyes is near, Whom thou dost seek'?—Nay, here comes one to ask, The yellow forest-king, his great jaws armed With fourfold fangs. A tiger standeth now Face to face on my path; I'll speak with him Fearlessly: 'Dreadful chief of all this waste, Thou art the sovereign of the beasts, and I Am daughter of Vidarbha's King; my name, The Princess Damayanti; know thou me, Wife of Nishadha's Lord—of Nala—styled "Subduer of his Foes"? Him seek I here— Abandoned, sorrow-stricken, miserable. Comfort me, mighty beast, if so thou canst, Saying thou hast seen Nala; but if this Thou canst not do, then, ah, thou savage lord, Terrible friend, devour me, setting me Free from all woes!' The tiger answereth not; He turns, and quits me in my tears, to stalk Down where the river glitters through the reeds, Seeking its seaward way. Then will I pray Unto yon sacred mount of clustered crags, Broad-shouldered, shining, lifting high to heaven Its diverse-colored peaks, where the mind climbs Its hid heart rich with silver veins, and gold, And stored with many a precious gem unseen. Clear towers it o'er the forest, broad and bright Like a green banner; and the sides of it House many a living thing—lions and boars, Tigers and elephants, and bears and deer. Softly around me from its feathered flocks The songs ring, perched upon the kinsuk trees, The asokas, vakuls, and punnaga boughs, Or hidden in the karnikara leaves, And tendrils of the dhava or the fig; Full of great glens it soars, where waters leap And bright birds lave. This king of hills I sue For tidings of my lord. O Mountain Lord, Far-seen and celebrated hill! that cleav'st The blue of the sky, refuge of living things, Most noble eminence, I worship thee; Thee I salute, who am a monarch's child, The daughter and the consort of a prince, The high-born Damayanti, unto whom Bhima, Vidarbha's chief—that puissant lord— Was sire, renowned o'er earth. Protector he Of the four castes, performer of the rites Called Rajasuya and the Aswamedha— A bounteous giver, first of rulers, known For his large shining eyes; holy and just, Fast to his word, unenvious, sweet of speech, Gentle and valiant, dutiful and pure; The guardian of Vidarbha, of his foes The slayer. Know me, O Majestic Mount! For that King's daughter, bending low to thee. In Nishadha lived the father of my lord, The Maharaja Virasena named, Wealthy and great; whose son, of regal blood, High-fortuned, powerful, and noble-souled, Ruleth by right the realm paternal: he Is Nala, terror of all enemies; Dark Nala, praised-in-song; Nala the just, The pure; deep-seen in scriptures, sweet of speech, Drinker of Soma-juice, and worshipper Of Agni; sacrificing, giving gifts; First in the wars, a perfect, princely lord. His wife am I, Great Mountain! and come here Fortuneless, husbandless, and spiritless, Everywhere seeking him, my best of men. O Mount, whose doubled ridge stamps on the sky Yon line, by fivescore splendid pinnacles Indented! tell me, in this gloomy wood Hast thou seen Nala? Nala, wise and bold, Like a tusked elephant for might; long armed, Indomitable, gallant, glorious, true; Nala, Nishadha's chief—hast thou seen him? O Mountain, why consolest thou me not, Answering one word to sorrowful, distressed, Lonely, lost Damayanti?" Then she cried:— "But answer for thyself, Hero and Lord! If thou art in the forest, show thyself! Alas! when shall I hear that voice, as low, As tender as the murmur of the rain When great clouds gather; sweet as Amrit-drink? Thy voice, once more, my Nala, calling to me Full softly, 'Damayanti!'—dearest Prince, That would be music soothing to these ears As sound of sacred Veda; that would stay My pains and comfort me, and bring me peace." Thereafter, turning from the mount, she went Northwards, and journeying on three nights and days Came to a green incomparable grove By holy men inhabited; a haunt Placid as Paradise, whose indwellers Like to Vasistha, Bhrigu, Atri, were— Those ancient saints. Restraining sense they lived, Heedful in meats, subduing passion, pure, Breathing within; their food water and herbs; Ascetics; very holy; seeking still The heavenward road; clad in the bark of trees And skins—all gauds of earth being put by. This hermitage, peopled by gentle ones, Glad Damayanti spied, circled with herds Of wild things grazing fearless, and with troops Of monkey-folk o'erheard; and when she saw, Her heart was lightened, for its quietness. So drew she nigh—that lovely wanderer— Bright-browed, long-tressed, large-hipped, full-bosomed, fair, With pearly teeth and honeyed mouth, in gait Right queenly still, having those long black eyes— The wife of Virasena's son, the gem Of all dear women, glory of her time; Sad Damayanti entered their abode, Those holy men saluting reverently, With modest body bowed. Thus stood she there And all the saints spake gently, "Swagatam— Welcome!" and gave the greetings which are meet; And afterwards, "Repose thyself," they said; "What wouldst thou have of us?" Then, with soft words The slender-waisted spake: "Of all these here, So worshipful in sacrifice and rite— 'Mid gentle beasts and birds—in tasks and toils And blameless duties—is it well?" And they Answered: "We thank you, noble lady, well. Tell us, most beauteous one, thy name, and say What thou desirest. Seeing thee so fair, So worthy, yet so sorrowful, our minds Are lost in wonder. Weep not. Comfort take. Art thou the goddess of the wood? Art thou The Mountain-Yakshi, or, belike, some sprite Which lives under the river? Tell us true, Gentle and faultless form!" Whereat reply Thus made she to the Rishis: "None of these Am I, good saints. No goddess of the wood, Nor yet a mountain nor a river sprite; A woman ye behold, most only ones, Whose moving story I will tell you true. The Raja of Vidarbha is my sire, Bhima his name, and—Best of Twice-born!—know My husband is Nishadha's Chief, the famed, The wise and valiant and victorious Prince, The high and lordly Nala; of the gods A steadfast worshipper; of Brahmanas The friend; his people's shield; honored and strong, Truth-speaking, skilled in arms, sagacious, just; Terrible to his foes, fortunate, lord Of many conquered towns; a godlike man, Princeliest of princes—Nala—one that hath A countenance like the full moon's for light, And eyes of lotus. This true offerer Of sacrifices, this close votary Of Vedas and Vedangas, in the war Deadly to enemies, like sun and moon For splendor—by some certain evil ones Being defied to dice, my virtuous Prince Was, by their wicked acts, of realm despoiled— Wealth, jewels, all. I am his woful wife, The Princess Damayanti. Seeking him Through thickets have I roamed, over rough hills, By crag and river and the reedy lake, By marsh and waterfall and jungle-bush, In quest of him—my lord, my warrior, My hero—and still roam, uncomforted. Worshipful brethren! say if he hath come— Nishadha's Chief, my Nala, hitherward Unto your pleasant homes—he, for whose sake I wander in the dismal pathless wood With bears and tigers haunted—terrible! Ah! if I find him not, ere there be passed Many more nights and days, peace will I win; For death shall set my mournful spirit free. What cause have I to live, lacking my Prince? Why should I longer breathe, whose heart is dead With sorrow for my lord?" To Bhima's child, So in the wood bewailing, made reply Those holy, truthful men: "Beautiful One! The future is for thee; fair will it fall! Our eyes, by long devotions opened, see— Even now—thy lord; thou shalt behold him soon, Nishadha's chief, the famous Nala, strong In battle, loving justice. Yea, this Prince Thou wilt regain, Bhima's sad daughter! freed From troubles, purged of sin; and witness him— With all his gems and glories—governing Nishadha once again, invincible, Joy of his friends and terror of his foes. Yea, Noblest, thou shalt have thy love anew In days to come." So speaking, from the sight Of Damayanti, at that instant, passed Hermits, with hermitage and holy fires, Evanishing. In wonderment she stood, Gazing bewildered. Then the Princess cried:— "Was it in dream I saw them? Whence befell This unto me? Where are the brethren gone, The ring of huts, the pleasant stream that ran With birds upon its crystal banks, the grove Delightful, with its fruits and flowers?" Long while Pondered and wondered Damayanti there, Her bright smile fled, pale, strengthless, sorrowful; Then to another region of the wood, With sighs, and eyes welling great tears, she passed, Lamenting; till a beauteous tree she spied— The Asoka, best of trees. Fair rose it there Beside the forest, glowing with the flame Of golden and crimson blossoms, and its boughs Full of sweet-singing birds. "Ahovat—Look!" She cried: "Ah, lovely tree, that wavest here Thy crown of countless, shining, clustering blooms As thou wert woodland king—Asoka tree, Tree called 'the sorrow-ender,' heart's-ease tree! Be what thy name saith—end my sorrow now, Saying, ah, bright Asoka! thou hast seen My Prince, my dauntless Nala; seen that lord Whom Damayanti loves and his foes fear; Seen great Nishadha's Chief, so dear to me, His tender princely skin in rended cloth Scantily clad. Hath he passed wandering Under thy branches, grievously forlorn? Answer, Asoka! 'Sorrow-ender,' speak! That I go sorrowless, O heart's-ease, be Truly heart-easing—ease my heart of pain." Thus, wild with grief, she spake unto the tree, Round and round walking, as to reverence it; And then, unanswered, the sweet lady sped Through wastes more dreadful, passing many a Many still-gliding rillets, many a peak Tree-clad, with beasts and birds of wondrous kind, In dark ravines, and caves, and lonely glooms. These things saw Damayanti, Bhima's child, Seeking her lord. At last, on the long road, She, whose soft smile was once so beautiful, A caravan encountered. Merchantmen With trampling horses, elephants, and wains, Made passage of a river, running slow In cool, clear waves. The quiet waters gleamed, Shining and wide outspread, between the canes Which bordered it, wherefrom echoed the cries Of fish-hawks, curlews, and red chakravaks, With sounds of leaping fish and water-snakes, And tortoises, amid its shoals and flats Sporting or feeding. When she spied that throng— Heart-maddened with her anguish, weak and wan, Half clad, bloodless and thin, her long black locks Matted with dust—breathlessly breaks she in Upon them—Nala's wife—so beauteous once, So honored. Seeing her, some fled in fear; Some gazed, speechless with wonder; some called out, Mocking the piteous face by words of scorn; But some (my King!) had pity of her woe, And spake her fair, inquiring: "Who art thou? And whence? And in this grove what seekest thou, To come so wild? Thy mien astonisheth. Art of our kind, or art thou something strange, The spirit of the forest, or the hill, Or river valley? Tell us true; then we Will buy thy favor. If, indeed, thou art Yakshini, Rakshasi, or she-creature Haunting this region, be propitious! Send Our caravan in safety on its path, That we may quickly, by thy fortune, go Homeward, and all fair chances fall to us." Hereby accosted, softly gave response That royal lady—weary for her lord— Answering the leader of the caravan, And those that gathered round, a marvelling throng Of men and boys and elders: "Oh, believe I am as you, of mortal birth, but born A Raja's child, and made a Raja's wife. Him seek I, Chieftain of Nishadha, named Prince Nala—famous, glorious, first in war. If ye know aught of him, my king, my joy, My tiger of the jungle, my lost lord, Quick, tell me, comfort me!" Then one who led Their line—the merchant Suchi—answering, Spake to the peerless Princess: "Hear me now. I am the captain of this caravan, But nowhere any named by Nala's name Have I, or these, beheld. Of evil beasts The woods were full—cheetahs and bears and cats, Tigers and elephants, bison and boar; Those saw we in the brake on every side, But nowhere nought of human shape, save thee. May Manibhadra have us in his grace— The Lord of Yakshas—as I tell thee truth!" Then sadly spake she to the trader-chief And to his band: "Whither wend ye, I pray? Please ye, acquaint me where this Sartha[23] goes." Replied the captain: "Unto Chedi's realm, Where rules the just Subahu, journey we, To sell our merchandise, daughter of men!" Thus by the chieftain of the band informed, The peerless Princess journeyed with them, still Seeking her lord. And at the first the way Fared through another forest, dark and deep; Afterwards came the traders to a pool Broad, everywhere delightful, odorous With cups of opened lotus, and its shores Green with rich grass, and edged with garden trees— A place of flowers and fruits and singing birds. So cool and clear and peacefully it gleamed, That men and cattle, weary with the march, Clamored to pitch; and, on their chieftain's sign, The pleasant hollow entered they, and camped— All the long caravan—at sunset's hour. There, in the quiet of the middle night, Deep slumbered these; when, sudden on them fell A herd of elephants, thirsting to drink, In rut, the mada[24] oozing from their heads. And when those great beasts spied the caravan, And smelled the tame cows of their kind, they rushed Headlong, and, mad with must, overwhelming all, With onset vast and irresistible. As when from some tall peak into the plain Thunder and smoke and crash the rolling rocks, Through splintered stems and thorns breaking their path, So swept the herd to where, beside the pool, Those sleepers lay; and trampled them to earth Half-risen, helpless, shrieking in the dark, "Haha! the elephants!" Of those unslain, Some in the thickets sought a shelter; some, Yet dazed with sleep, stood panic-stricken, mute; Till here with tusks, and there with trunks, the beasts Gored them, and battered them, and trod them flat Under their monstrous feet. Then might be seen Camels with camel-drivers, perishing, And men flying in fear, who struck at men— Terror and death and clamor everywhere: While some, despairing, cast themselves to earth; And some, in fleeing, fell and died; and some Climbed to the tree-tops. Thus on every side Scattered and ruined was that caravan— Cattle and merchants—by the herd assailed. So hideous was the tumult,-all three worlds Seemed filled with fright; and one was heard to cry:— "The fire is in the tents! fly for your lives! Stay not!" And others cried: "Look where we leave Our treasures trodden down; gather them! Halt! Why run ye, losing ours and yours? Nay, stay! Stand ye, and we will stand!" And then to these One voice cried, "Stand!" another, "Fly! we die!" Answered by those again who shouted, "Stand! Think what we lose, O cowards!" While this rout Raged, amid dying groans and sounds of fear, The Princess, waking startled, terror-struck, Saw such a sight as might the boldest daunt— Such scene as those great lovely lotus-eyes Ne'er gazed upon before. Sick with new dread— Her breath suspended 'twixt her lips—she rose And heard, of those surviving, some one moan Amidst his fellows: "From whose evil act Is this the fruit? Hath worship not been paid To mighty Manibhadra? Gave we not The reverence due to Vaishravan, that King Of all the Yakshas? Was not offering made At outset to the spirits which impede? Is this the evil portent of the birds? Were the stars adverse? or what else hath fall'n?" And others said, wailing for friends and goods:— "Who was that woman, with mad eyes, that came Into our camp, ill-favored, hardly cast In mortal mould? By her, be sure, was wrought This direful sorcery. Demon or witch, Yakshi or Rakshasi, or gliding ghost, Or something frightful, was she. Hers this deed Of midnight murders; doubt there can be none. Ah, if we could espy that hateful one, The ruin of our march, the woe-maker, With stones, clods, canes, or clubs, nay, with clenched fists, We'd strike her dead, the murderess of our band!" Trembling the Princess heard those angry words; And—saddened, maddened, shamed—breathless she fled Into the thicket, doubtful if such sin Might not be hers, and with fresh dread distressed. "Aho!" she weeps, "pitiless grows the wrath Of Fate against me. Not one gleam of good Arriveth. Of what fault is this the fruit? I cannot call to mind a wrong I wrought To any—even a little thing—in act Or thought or word; whence then hath come this curse? Belike from ill deeds done in by-gone lives It hath befall'n, and what I suffer now Is payment of old evils undischarged. Grievous the doom—my palace lost, my lord, My children, kindred; I am torn away From home and love and all, to roam accurst In this plague-haunted waste!" When broke the day, Those which escaped alive, with grievous cries Departed, mourning for their fellows slain. Each one a kinsman or a friend laments— Father or brother, son, or comrade dear. And Damayanti, hearing, weeps anew, Saying: "What dreadful sin was that I wrought Long, long ago, which, when I chance to meet These wayfarers in the unpeopled wood, Dooms them to perish by the elephants, In my dark destiny enwrapped? No doubt More and more sorrow I shall bear, or bring, For none dies ere his time; this is the lore Of ancient sages; this is why—being glad If I could die—I was not trampled down Under the elephants. There haps to man Nothing unless by destiny. Why else, Seeing that never have I wrought one wrong, From childhood's hours, in thought or word or deed, Hath this woe chanced? May be—meseems it may!— The mighty gods, at my Swayamvara Slighted by me for Nala's dearest sake, Are wroth, and by their dread displeasure thus To loss and loneliness I am consigned!" So—woe-begone and wild—this noble wife, Deserted Damayanti, poured her griefs: And afterwards, with certain Brahmanas Saved from the rout—good men who knew the Veds— Sadly her road she finished, like the moon That goeth clouded in the month of rain. Thus travelling long, the Princess drew at last Nigh to a city, at the evening hour. The dwelling-place it was of Chedi's Chief, The just Subahu. Through its lofty gates Painfully passed she, clad in half a cloth; And as she entered—sorrow-stricken, wan, Foot-weary, stained with mire, with unsmoothed hair, Unbathed, and eyes of madness—those who saw, Wondered and stared, and watched her as she toiled Down the long city street. The children break From play, and—boys with girls—followed her steps, So that she came—a crowd encompassing— Unto the King's door. On the palace roof The mother of the Maharaja paced, And marked the throng, and that sad wayfarer. Then to her nurse spake the queen-mother this:— "Go thou, and bring yon woman unto me! The people trouble her; mournful she walks, Seeming unfriended, yet bears she a mien Made for a king's abode, and, all so wild, Still are her wistful eyes like the great eyes Of Lakshmi's self." So downwards went the nurse, Bidding the rude folk back; and to the roof Of the great palace led that wandering one— Desolate Damayanti—whom the Queen Courteous besought: "Though thou art wan of face, Thou wear'st a noble air, which through thy griefs Shineth as lightning doth behind its cloud. Tell me thy name, and whose thou art, and whence. No lowborn form is thine, albeit thou com'st Wearing no ornaments; and all alone Wanderest—not fearing men—by some spell safe." Hearing which words, the child of Bhima spake Gratefully this: "A woful woman I, And woful wife, but faithful to my vows; High-born, but like a servant, like a slave, Lodging where it may hap, and finding food From the wild roots and fruits wherever night Brings me my resting-place. Yet is my lord A prince noble and great, with countless gifts Endued; and him I followed faithfully As 't were his shadow, till hard fate decreed That he should fall into the rage of dice:— And, worsted in that play, into the wood He fled, clad in one cloth, frenzied and lone. And I his steps attended in the wood, Comforting him, my husband. But it chanced, Hungry and desperate, he lost his cloth; And I—one garment bearing—followed still My unclad lord, despairing, reasonless, Through many a weary night not slumbering. But when, at length, a little while I slept, My Prince abandoned me, rending away Half of my garment, leaving there his wife, Who never wrought him wrong. That lord I seek By day and night, with heart and soul on fire— Seek, but still find not; though he is to me Brighter than light which gleams from lotus-cups, Divine as are the immortals, dear as breath, The master of my life, my pride, my joy!" Whom, grieving so, her sweet eyes blind with tears, Gently addressed Subahu's mother—sad To hear as she to tell. "Stay with us here, Thou ill-starred lady. Great the friendliness I have for thee. The people of our court Shall thy lost husband seek; or, it may be, He too will wander hither of himself By devious paths: yea, mournful one, thy lord Thou wilt regain, abiding with us here." And Damayanti, bowing, answered thus Unto the Queen: "I will abide with thee, O mother of illustrious sons, if so They feed me not on orts, nor seek from me To wash the feet of comers, nor that I Be set to speak with any stranger-men Before the curtain; and, if any man Sue me, that he be punished; and if twice, Then that he die, guilty of infamy. This is my earnest prayer; but Brahmanas Who seek my husband, or bear news of him, Such will I speak with. If it may be thus, Gladly would I abide, great lady, here; If otherwise, it is not on my mind To sojourn longer." Very tenderly Quoth the queen-mother: "All that thou dost ask We will ordain. The gods reward thy love, Which hath such honor!" Comforting her so, To the king's daughter, young Sunanda, spake The Maharajni: "See, Sunanda, here Clad as a handmaid, but in form divine, One of thy years, gentle and true. Be friends; Take and give pleasure in glad company Each with the other, keeping happy hearts." So went Sunanda joyous to her house, Leading with loving hand the Princess in, The maidens of the court accompanying.

Part II.

Not long (O Maharaja!) was Nala fled From Damayanti, when, in midmost gloom Of the thick wood a flaming fire he spied, And from the fire's heart heard proceed a voice Of one imperilled, crying many times:— "Haste hither, Punyashloka, Nala, haste!" "Fear not," the Prince replied; "I come!" and sprang Across the burning bushes, where he saw A snake—a king of serpents—lying curled In a great ring, which reared its dancing crest Saluting, and in human accents spoke:— "Maharaja, kindly lord, I am the snake Karkotaka; by me was once betrayed The famous Rishi Narada; his wrath Doomed me, thou Chief of men! to bear this spell— 'Coil thy false folds,' said he, 'forever here, A serpent, motionless upon this spot, Till it shall chance that Nala passeth by And bears thee hence; then only from my curse Canst thou be freed,' And prisoned by that curse I have no power to stir, though the wood burns; Nay, not a coil! good fellowship I'll show If thou wilt succor me. I'll be to thee A faithful friend, as no snake ever yet. Lift me, and quickly from the flames bear forth: For thee I shall grow light." Thereat shrank up That monstrous reptile to a finger's length; And grasping this, unto a place secure From burning, Nala bore it, where the air Breathed freshly, and the fire's black path was stayed. Then made the Prince to lay the serpent down, But yet again it speaks: "Nishadha's Lord, Grasp me and slowly go, counting thy steps; For, Raja, thou shalt have good fortune hence." So Nala slowly went, counting his steps; And when the tenth pace came, the serpent turned And bit the Prince. No sooner pierced that tooth Than all the likeness of Nishadha changed; And, wonder-struck, he gazed upon himself; While from the dust he saw the snake arise A man, and, speaking as Karkotaka, Comfort him thus:— "Thou art by me transformed That no man know thee: and that evil one (Possessing, and undoing thee, with grief) Shall so within thee by my venom smart, Shall through thy blood so ache, that—till he quit— He shall endure the woe he did impart. Thus by my potent spell, most noble Prince! (Who sufferest too long) thou wilt be freed From him that haunts thee. Fear no more the wood, Thou tiger of all princes! fear thou not Horned nor fanged beasts, nor any enemies, Though they be Brahmans! safe thou goest now, Guarded from grief and hurt—Chieftain of men! By this kind poison. In the fields of war Henceforth the victory always falls to thee; Go joyous, therefore, Prince; give thyself forth For 'Vahuka, the charioteer:' repair To Rituparna's city, who is skilled In play, and dwells in fair Ayodhya. Wend thou, Nishadha! thither; he will teach Great subtlety in numbers unto thee, Exchanging this for thine own matchless gift Of taming horses. From the lordly line Descended of Ikshvaku, glad and kind The King will be; and thou, learning of him His deepest act of dice, wilt win back all, And clasp again thy Princess. Therefore waste No thought on woes. I tell thee truth! thy realm Thou shalt regain; and when the time is come That thou hast need to put thine own form on, Call me to mind, O Prince, and tie this cloth Around thy body. Wearing it, thy shape Thou shalt resume." Therewith the serpent gave A magic twofold robe, not wove on earth, Which (O thou son of Kuru!) Nala took; And so the snake, transformed, vanished away. The great snake being gone, Nishadha's Chief Set forth, and on the tenth day entered in At Rituparna's town; there he besought The presence of the Raja, and spake thus:— "I am the chariot-driver, Vahuka. There is not on this earth another man Hath gifts like mine to tame and guide the steed; Moreover, thou mayest use me in nice needs And dangerous, where kings lack faithful hearts. Specially skilful I am in dressing meats; And whatso other duties may befall, Though they be weighty, I shall execute, If, Rituparna, thou wilt take me in." "I take thee," quoth the King. "Dwell here with me. Such service as thou knowest, render us. 'Tis, Vahuka, forever in my heart To have my steeds the swiftest; be thy task To train me horses like the wind for speed; My charioteer I make thee, and thy wage Ten thousand gold suvernas. Thou wilt have For fellows, Varshneya and Jivala; With those abiding, lodge thou happy here." So entertained and honored of the King, In Rituparna's city Nala dwelled, Lodging with Varshneya and Jivala. There sojourned he (my Raja!), thinking still Of sweet Vidarbha's Princess day by day; And sunset after sunset one sad strain He sang: "Where resteth she that roamed the wood Hungry and parched and worn, but always true? Doth she remember yet her faultful lord? Ah, who is near her now?" So it befell Jivala heard him ever sighing thus, And questioned: "Who is she thou dost lament? Say, Vahuka! fain would I know her name. Long life be thine; but tell me who he is, The faultful man that was the lady's lord." And Nala answered him: "There lives a man, Evil and rash, that had a noble wife. False to his word he was; and thus it fell That somewhere, for some reason (ask not me!), He quitted her, this rash one. And—so wrenched Apart from hers—his spirit, bad and sad, Muses and moans, with grief's slow fire consumed Night-time and day-time. Thence it is he sings At every sunset this unchanging verse, An outcast on the earth, by hazard led Hither and thither. Such a man thou seest Woful, unworthy, holding in his heart Always that sin. I was that lady's lord, Whom she did follow through the dreadful wood, Living by me abandoned, at this hour; If yet, in truth, she lives—youthful, alone, Unpractised in the ways, not meriting Fortunes so hard. Ah, if indeed she lives, Who roamed the thick and boundless forest, full Of prowling beasts—roamed it, my Jivala, Unguarded by her guilty lord—forsook, Betrayed, good friend!" Thus did Nishadha grieve, Calling sweet Damayanti to his mind. So tarried he within the Raja's house, And no man knew his place of sojourning. While, stripped of state, the Prince and Princess thus Were sunk to servitude, Bhima made quest, Sending his Brahmans forth to search for them With straight commands, and for their road-money Liberal store. "Seek everywhere," said he Unto the twice-born, "Nala—everywhere My daughter Damayanti. Whoso comes Successful in this quest, discovering her— With lost Nishadha's Lord—and bringing them, A thousand cows to that man will I give, And village-lands whence shall be revenue As great as from a city. If so be Ye cannot bring me Nala and my child, To him that learns their refuge I will give The thousand cows." Thereby rejoiced, they went, Those Brahmans, hither and thither, up and down, Into all regions, rajaships, and towns, Seeking Nishadha's Chieftain, and his wife. But Nala nowhere found they; nowhere found Sweet Damayanti, Bhima's beauteous child— Until, straying to pleasant Chedipur, One day a twice-born came, Sudeva named, And entered it; and, spying round about (Upon a feast-day by the King proclaimed), He saw forth-passing through the palace gate A woman—Bhima's daughter—side by side With young Sunanda. Little praise had now That beauty which in old days shone so bright; Marred with much grief it was, like sunlight dimmed By fold on fold of wreathed and creeping mists. But when Sudeva marked the great dark eyes— Lustreless though they were, and she so worn, So listless—"Lo, the Princess!" whispered he;— "'Tis the King's daughter," quoth he to himself; And thus mused on:— "Yea! as I used to see, 'Tis she! no other woman hath such grace! My task is done; I gaze on that one form, Which is like Lakshmi's, whom all worlds adore. I see the bosoms, rounded, dark, and smooth, As they were sister-moons; the soft moon-face Which with its queenly light makes all things bright Where it doth gleam; the large deep lotus-eyes, That, like to Rati's own, the Queen of Love, Beam, each a lovelit star, filling the worlds With longing. Ah, fair lotus-flower, plucked up By Fate's hard grasp from far Vidarbha's pool, How is thy cup muddied and slimed to-day! Ah, moon, how is thy night like to the eclipse When Rahu swallows up the silver round! Ah, tearless eyes, reddened with weeping him, How are ye like to gentle streams run dry! Ah, lake of lilies, where grief's elephant Hath swung his trunk, and turned the crystal black, And scattered all the blue and crimson cups, And frightened off the birds! Ah, lily-cup, Tender, and delicately leaved, and reared To blossom in a palace built of gems, How dost thou wither here, wrenched by the root, Sun-scorched and faded! Noblest, loveliest, best!— Who bear'st no gems, yet so becomest them— How like the new moon's silver horn thou art, When envious black clouds blot it! Lost for thee Are love, home, children, friends, and kinsmen; lost All joy of that fair body thou dost wear Only that it may last to find thy lord. Truly a woman's ornament is this:— The husband is her jewel; lacking him She hath none, though she shines with priceless pearls; Piteous must be her state! And, torn from her, Doth Nala cling to life; or, day by day, Waste with long yearning? Oh, as I behold Those black locks, and those eyes—dark and long-shaped As are the hundred-petalled lotus-leaves— And watch her joyless who deserves all joy, My heart is sore! When will she overpass The river of this sorrow, and come safe Unto its farther shore? When will she meet Her lord, as moon and moon-star in the sky Mingle? For, as I think, in winning her, Nala would win his happy days again, And—albeit banished now—have back his lands. Alike in years and graces, and alike In lordly race these were: no bride could seem Worthy Nishadha, if it were not she; Nor husband worthy of Vidarbha's Pride, Save it were Nala. It is meet I bring Comfort forthwith to yon despairing one, The consort of the just and noble Prince, For whom I see her heart-sick. I will go And speak good tidings to this moon-faced Queen, Who once knew nought of sorrows, but to-day Stands yonder, plunged heart-deep in woful thought." So, all those signs and marks considering Which stamped her Bhima's child, Sudeva drew Nearer, and said: "Vidarbhi, Nala's wife, I am the Brahmana Sudeva, friend Unto my lord, thy brother, and I come By royal Bhima's mandate, seeking thee. That Maharaja, thy father, dwells in health; Thy mother and thy house are well; and well— With promise of long years—thy little ones, Sister and brother. Yet, for thy sake, Queen, Thy kindred sit as men with spirit gone; In search of thee a hundred twice-born rove Over all lands." But (O King Yudhisthir!) Hardly one word she heard before she broke With question after question on the man, Asking of this dear friend and that and this; All mingled with quick tears, and tender sighs, And hungry gazing on her brother's friend, Sudeva—best of Brahmanas—come there. Which soon Sunanda marked, watching them speak Apart, and Damayanti all in tears. Then came she to her mother, saying: "See, The handmaid thou didst give me talks below With one who is a Brahman, all her words Watered with weeping; if thou wilt, demand What this man knows." Therewith swept forth amazed The mother of the Raja, and beheld How Nala's wife spake with the Brahmana. Whom straight she bade them summon; and, being brought, In this wise questioned: "Knowest thou whose wife, Whose daughter, this one is; and how she left Her kin; and wherefore, being heavenly-eyed And noble-mannered, she hath wandered here? I am full fain to hear this; tell me all, No whit withholding; answer faithfully— Who is our slave-girl with the goddess gait?" The Brahmana Sudeva, so addressed, Seating himself at ease, unto the Queen Told Damayanti's story, how all fell. Sudeva said: "There reigns in majesty King Bhima at Vidarbha; and of him The Princess Damayanti here is child; And Virasena's son, Nala, is Lord Over Nishadha, praised-in-song and wise; And of that Prince this lady is the wife. In play his brother worsted Nala—stripped Of lands and wealth the Prince; who fled his realm, Wandering with Damayanti—where, none knew. In quest of Damayanti we have roamed The earth's face o'er, until I found her here In thy son's house, the King's—the very same, Since like to her for grace no woman lives Of all fair women. Where her eyebrows meet A pretty mole, born with her, should be seen A little lotus-bud—not visible By reason of the dust of toil which clouds Her face and veils its moon-like beauty—that The wondrous Maker on the rare work stamped To be His Mark. But as the waxing moon Goes thin and darkling for awhile, then rounds The crescent's rims with splendors, so this Queen Hath lost not queenliness. Being now obscured, Soiled with the grime of chores, unbeautified, She shows true gold. The fire which trieth gold Denoteth less itself by instant heat Than Damayanti by her goodlihood. As first sight knew I her. She bears that mole." Whilst yet Sudeva spake (O King of men!), Sunanda from the slave's front washed away The gathered dust, and forth that mark appeared 'Twixt Damayanti's brows, as when clouds break, And in the sky the moon, the night-maker, Glitters to view. Seeing the spot awhile, Sunanda and the mother of the King Gazed voiceless; then they clasped her neck and wept Rejoicing, till the Queen, staying her tears, Exclaimed: "My sister's daughter, dear! thou art, By this same mark. Thy mother and myself Were sisters by one father—he that rules Dasarna, King Sudaman. She was given To Bhima, and to Virabahu I. Once at Dasarna, in my father's house, I saw thee, newly born. Thy race and mine, Princess, are one: henceforward, therefore, here As I am, Damayanti, shalt thou be." With gladdened heart did Damayanti bend Before her mother's sister, answering thus:— "Peaceful and thankful dwelled I here with thee, Being unknown, my every need supplied, My life and honor by thy succor safe, Yet, Maharajni, even than this dear home One would be dearer: 'tis so many days Since we were parted. Suffer me to go Where those my tender little ones were led; So long—poor babes!—of me and of their sire Bereft. If, lady, thou dost think to show Kindness to me, this is my wish: to wend Unto Vidarbha swiftly; wilt thou bid They bear me thither?" Was no sooner heard That fond desire, than the queen-mother gave Willing command; and soon an ample troop, The King consenting, gathered for her guard. So was she sent upon a palanquin, With soldiers, pole-bearers, and meat and drink, And garments as befitted—happier—home. Thus to Vidarbha came its Pride again, By no long road; and joyously her kin Brought the sweet Princess in, and welcomed her. In peace and safety all her house she found; Her children well;—father and mother, friends. The gods she worshipped, and to Brahmanas Due reverence made, and whatso else was meet That Damayanti did, regal in all. To wise Sudeva fell the thousand cows By Bhima granted, with the village-lands, And goodly gifts beside. But when there passed One night of rest within the palace-walls, The wistful Princess to her mother said:— "If thou wouldst have me live, I tell thee true, Dear mother, it must be by bringing back My Nala, my own lord; and only so." When this she spake, right sorrowful became The Rani, weeping silently, nor gave One word of answer; and the palace-girls, Seeing this grief, sat round them, weeping too, And crying: "Haha! where is gone her lord?" And loud the lamentation was of all. Afterwards to the Maharaja his Queen Told what was said: "Lord! all uncomforted Thy daughter Damayanti weeps and grieves, Lacking her husband. Even to me she spake Before our damsels, laying shame aside:— 'Find Nala; let the people of the court Strive day and night to learn where Nala is.'"

Then Bhima, hearing, called his Brahmanas Patient and wise, and issued hest to go Into all regions, seeking for the Prince. But first, by mandate of the Maharaja, To Damayanti all those twice-born came, Saying: "Now we depart!" Then Bhima's child Gave ordinance: "To whatsoever lands Ye wend, say this—wherever gather men, Say this—in every place these verses speak:—

Whither art thou departed, cruel lover, Who stole the half of thy beloved's cloth, And left her to awaken, and discover The wrong thou wroughtest to the love of both? She, as thou didst command, a sad watch keepeth, With woful heart wearing the rended dress. Prince, hear her cry who thus forever weepeth; Be mindful, hero; comfort her distress!

And, furthermore," the Princess said, "since fire Leaps into flame when the wind fans the spark, Be this too spoken, that his heart may burn:—

By every husband nourished and protected Should every wife be. Think upon the wood! Why these thy duties hast thou so neglected, Prince, that was called noble and true and good? Art then become compassionate no longer, Shunning, perchance, my fortune's broken way? Ah, husband, love is most! let love be stronger; Ahimsa paro dharma,[25] thou didst say.

These verses while ye speak," quoth the Princess, "Should any man make answer, note him well In any place; and who he is, and where He dwells. And if one listens to these words Intently, and shall so reply to them, Good Brahmans, hold ye fast his speech, and bring, Breath by breath, all of it unto me here; But so that he shall know not whence ye speak, If ye go back. Do this unweariedly; And if one answer—be he high or low, Wealthy or poor—learn all he was and is, And what he would." Hereby enjoined, they went, Those twice-born, into all the lands to seek Prince Nala in his loneliness. Through towns, Cities and villages, hamlets and camps, By shepherds' huts and hermits' caves, they passed, Searching for Nala; yet they found him not; Albeit in every region (O my king!) The words of Damayanti, as she taught, Spake they again in hearing of all men. Suddenly—after many days—there came A Brahman back, Parnada he was called, Who unto Bhima's child in this wise spake:— "O Damayanti, seeking Nala still, Ayodhya's streets I entered, where I saw The Maharaja; he—noble-minded one!— Heard me thy verses say, as thou hadst said; Great Rituparna heard those very words, Excellent Princess; but he answered nought; And no man answered, out of all the throng Ofttimes addressed. But when I had my leave And was withdrawn, a man accosted me Privately—one of Rituparna's train, Vahuka named, the Raja's charioteer (Something misshapen, with a shrunken arm, But skilled in driving, very dexterous In cookery and sweetmeats). He—with groans, And tears which rolled and rolled—asked of my health, And then these verses spake full wistfully:—

'Even when their loss is largest, noble ladies Keep the true treasure of their hearts unspent, Attaining heaven through faith, which undismayed is By wrong, unaltered by abandonment; Such an one guards with virtue's golden shield Her name from harm; pious and pure and tender; And, though her lord forsook her, will not yield To wrath, even against that vile offender— Even against the ruined, rash, ungrateful, Faithless, fond Prince from whom the birds did steal His only cloth, whom now a penance fateful Dooms to sad days, that dark-eyed will not feel Anger; for if she saw him she should see A man consumed with grief and loss and shame; Ill or well lodged, ever in misery, Her unthroned lord, a slave without a name.'

Such words I heard him speak," Parnada said, "And, hastening thence, I tell them to thee, here; Thou knowest; thou wilt judge; make the King know." But Damayanti listened, with great eyes Welling quick tears, while thus Parnada spake, And afterwards crept secretly and said Unto her mother: "Breathe no word hereof, Dear mother, to the King, but let me speak With wise Sudeva in thy presence here; Nothing should Bhima know of what I plan, But, if thou lovest me, by thee and me This shall be wrought. As I was safely led By good Sudeva home, so let him go— With not less happy fortune—to bring back, Ere many days, my Nala; let him seek Ayodhya, mother dear, and fetch my Prince!" But first Parnada, resting from his road— That best of twice-borns—did the Princess thank With honorable words and gifts: "If home My Nala cometh, Brahman!" so she spake, "Great guerdon will I give. Thou hast well done For me herein—- better than any man; Helping me find again my wandered lord." To which fair words made soft reply, and prayers For "peace and fortune," that high-minded one, And so passed home, his service being wrought. Next to Sudeva spake the sad Princess This (O my King!), her mother standing by:— "Good Brahman, to Ayodhya's city go. Say in the ears of Raja Rituparna, As though thou cam'st a simple traveller, 'The daughter of King Bhima once again Maketh to hold her high Swayamvara. The kings and princes from all lands repair Thither; the time draws nigh; to-morrow's dawn Shall bring the day. If thou wouldst be of it, Speed quickly, conquering King! at sunsetting Another lord she chooseth for herself; Since whether Nala liveth or is dead, None knoweth.'" These the words which he should say; And, learning them, he sped, and thither came— That Brahmana Sudeva—and he spake To Maharaja Rituparna so. Now when the Raja Rituparna heard Sudeva's words, quoth he to Vahuka Full pleasantly: "Much mind I have to go Where Damayanti holds Swayamvara, If to Vidarbha, in a single day, Thou deemest we might drive, my charioteer!" Of Nala, by his Raja thus addressed, Torn was the heart with anguish; for he thought:— "Can Damayanti purpose this? Could grief So change her? Is it not some fine device For my sake schemed? Or doth my Princess seek, All holy as she was, this guilty joy, Being so wronged of me, her rash weak lord? Frail is a woman's heart, and my fault great! Thus might she do it, being far from home, Bereft of friends, desolate with long woes Of love for me—my slender-waisted one! Yet no, no, no! she would not—she that is My children's mother! Be it false or true, Best shall I know in going; therefore now The will of Rituparna must I serve." Thus pondering in his mind, the troubled Prince With joined palms meekly to his master said:— "I shall thy hest accomplish! I can drive In one day, Raja, to Vidarbha's gates." Then in the royal stables—steed by steed, Stallions and mares, Vahuka scanned them all, By Rituparna prayed quickly to choose. Slowly he picked four coursers, under-fleshed, But big of bone and sinew; fetlocked well For journeying; high-bred, heavy-framed; of blood To match the best, yet gentle; blemish-free; Broad in the jaw, with scarlet nostrils spread; Bearing the Avarthas, the ten true marks— Reared on the banks of Indus, swift as wind. Which, when the Raja looked upon, he cried, Half-wrathful: "What thing thinkest thou to do? Wilt thou betray me? How should sorry beasts, Lean-ribbed and ragged, take us all that way, The long road we must swiftly travel hence?" Vahuka answered: "See on all these four The ten sure marks: one curl upon each crest, Two on the cheeks, two upon either flank, Two on the breast, and on each crupper one.[26] These to Vidarbha—doubt it not—will go; Yet, Raja, if thou wilt have others, speak; And I shall yoke them." Rituparna said:— "I know thou hast deep skill in stable-craft; Yoke therefore such four coursers as thou wilt, But quickly!" Thus those horses, two by two, High-mettled, spare, and strong, Prince Nala put Under the bars; and when the car was hitched, And eagerly the Raja made to mount, At sign the coursers bent their knees, and lay Along the earth. Then Nala (O my King!), With kindly voice cheering the gaunt bright steeds, Loosed them, and grasped the reins, and bade ascend Varshneya: so he started, headlong, forth. At cry of Vahuka the four steeds sprung Into the air, as they would fly with him; And when the Raja felt them, fleet as wind, Whirling along, mute sat he and amazed; And much Varshneya mused to hear and see The thundering of those wheels; the fiery four So lightly held; Vahuka's matchless art. "Is Matali, who driveth Indra's car, Our charioteer? for all the marks of him Are here! or Salihotra can this be, The god of horses, knowing all their ways, Who here in mortal form his greatness hides? Or is it—can it be—Nala the Prince, Nala the steed-tamer?" Thus pondered he:— "Whatever Nala knew this one doth know. Alike the mastery seems of both; alike I judge their years. If this man be not he, Two Nalas are there in the world for skill. They say there wander mighty powers on earth In strange disguises, who, divinely sprung, Veil themselves from us under human mould; Bewilderment it brings me, this his shape Misshappen—from conclusion that alone Withholds me; yet I wist not what to think, In age and manner like—and so unlike In form! Else Vahuka I must have deemed Nala, with Nala's gifts." So in his heart, Varshneya, watching, wondered—being himself The second charioteer. But Rituparna Sat joyous with the speed, delightedly Marking the driving of the Prince: the eyes Attent; the hand so firm upon the reins; The skill so quiet, wise, and masterful; Great joy the Maharaja had to see. By stream and mountain, woodland-path and pool, Swiftly, like birds that skim in air, they sped; Till, as the chariot plunged, the Raja saw His shoulder-mantle falling to the ground; And—loath to lose the robe—albeit so pressed, To Nala cried he, "Let me take it up; Check the swift horses, wondrous charioteer; And bid Varshneya light, and fetch my cloth," But Nala answered: "Far it lies behind; A yojana already we have passed; We cannot turn again to pick it up." A little onward Riturparna saw Within the wood a tall Myrobolan Heavy with fruit; hereat, eager he cried:— "Now, Vahuka, my skill thou mayest behold In the Arithmic. All arts no man knows; Each hath his wisdom, but in one man's wit Is perfect gift of one thing, and not more. From yonder tree how many leaves and fruits, Think'st thou, lie fall'n there upon the earth? Just one above a thousand of the leaves, And one above a hundred of the fruits; And on those two limbs hang, of dancing leaves, Five crores exact; and shouldst thou pluck yon boughs Together with their shoots, on those twain boughs Swing twice a thousand nuts and ninety-five!" Vahuka checked the chariot wonderingly, And answered: "Imperceptible to me Is what thou boastest, slayer of thy foes! But I to proof will put it, hewing down The tree, and, having counted, I shall know. Before thine eyes the branches twain I'll lop: How prove thee, Maharaja, otherwise, Whether this be or be not? I will count One by one—fruits and leaves—before thee, King; Varshneya, for a space, can rein the steeds." To him replied the Raja: "Time is none Now to delay." Vahuka answered quick (His own set purpose serving): "Stay this space, Or by thyself drive on! The road is good, The son of Vrishni will be charioteer!" On that the Raja answered soothingly:— "There is not in the earth another man That hath thy skill; and by thy skill I look To reach Vidarbha, O thou steed-tamer! Thou art my trust; make thou not hindrance now! Yet would I suffer, too, what thou dost ask, If thou couldst surely reach Vidarbha's gate Before yon sun hath sunk." Nala replied:— "When I have counted those vibhitak boughs, Vidarbha I will reach; now keep thy word." Ill pleased, the Raja said: "Halt then, and count! Take one bough from the branch which I shall show, And tell its fruits, and satisfy thy soul." So leaping from the car—eager he shore The boughs, and counted; and all wonder-struck To Rituparna spake: "Lo, as thou saidst So many fruits there be upon this bough! Exceeding marvellous is this thy gift, I burn to know such learning, how it comes." Answered the Raja, for his journey fain:— "My mind is quick with numbers, skilled to count; I have the science." "Give it me, dear Lord!" Vahuka cried: "teach me, I pray, this lore, And take from me my skill in horse-taming." Quoth Rituparna—impatient to proceed— Yet of such skill desirous: "Be it so! As thou hast prayed, receive my secret art, Exchanging with me here thy mastery Of horses." Thereupon did he impart His rules of numbers, taking Nala's too. But wonderful! So soon as Nala knew That hidden gift, the accursed Kali leapt Forth from his breast, the evil spirit's mouth Spewing the poison of Karkotaka Even as he issued. From the afflicted Prince That bitter plague of Kali passed away; And for a space Prince Nala lost himself, Rent by the agony. But when he saw The evil one take visible shape again— Free from the serpent's poison—Nishadha's Lord Had thought to curse him then; but Kali stood With clasped palms trembling, and besought the Prince, Saying: "Thy wrath restrain, Sovereign of men! I will repay thee well. Thy virtuous wife, Indrasen's angered mother, laid her ban Upon me when thou didst forsake her; since Within thee have I dwelled in anguish sore, Tortured and tossed and burning, night and day, With venom from the great snake's fang, which passed Into me by thy blood. Be pitiful! I take my refuge in thy mercy! Hear My promise, Prince! Wherever men henceforth Shall name thee before people, praising thee, This shall protect them from the dread of me; Nala shall guard from Kali, if so now Thou spare to curse me, seeking grace of thee." Thus supplicated, Nala stayed his wrath, Acceding; and the direful Kali fled Into the wounded tree, possessing it. But of no eyes, save Nala's, was he seen, Nor heard of any other; and the Prince, His sorrows shaking off, when Kali passed, After that numbering of the leaves, in joy Unspeakable, and glowing with new hope, Mounted the car again, and urged his steeds. But from that hour the tall Myrobolan, Possessed by Kali, stood there, sear and dead. Then onward, onward, speeding like the birds, Those coursers flew; and fast and faster still The glad Prince cheered them forward, all elate: And proudly rode the Raja towards the walls Of high Vidarbha. Thus did journey down Exultant Nala, free of trouble now, Quit of the evil spell, but bearing still His form misshapen, and the shrunken limb. At sunset in Vidarbha (O great King!) The watchers on the walls proclaimed, "There comes The Raja Rituparna!" Bhima bade Open the gates; and thus they entered in, Making all quarters of the city shake With rattling of the chariot-wheels. But when The horses of Prince Nala heard that sound, For joy they neighed, as when of old their lord Drew nigh. And Damayanti, in her bower, Far off that rattling of the chariot heard, As when at time of rains is heard the voice Of clouds low thundering; and her bosom thrilled At echo of that ringing sound. It came Loud and more loud, like Nala's, when of old, Gripping the reins, he cheered his mares along. It seemed like Nala to the Princess then— That clatter of the trampling of the hoofs; It seemed like Nala to the stabled steeds: Upon the palace-roof the peacocks heard And screamed; the elephants within their stalls Heard it and trumpeted; the coursers, tied, Snorted for joy to hear that leaping car; Peacocks and elephants and cattle stalled All called and clamored with uplifted heads, As wild things do at noise of coming rain. Then to herself the Princess spake: "This car, The rolling of it, echoing all around, Gladdens my heart. It must be Nala comes, My King of men! If I see not, this day, My Prince that hath the bright and moon-like face, My hero of unnumbered gifts, my lord, Ah, I shall die! If this day fall I not Into his opening arms—at last, at last— And feel his close embrace, oh, beyond doubt, I cannot live! If—ending all—to-day Nishadha cometh not, with this deep sound Like far-off thunder, then to-night I'll leap Into the golden, flickering, fiery flames! If now, now, now, my lion draws not nigh, My warrior-love, like the wild elephant, My Prince of princes—I shall surely die! Nought call I now to mind he said or did That was not rightly said and justly done. No idle word he spake, even in free speech; Patient and lordly; generous to bestow Beyond all givers; scorning to be base, Yea, even in secret—such Nishadha was. Alas! when, day and night, I think of him, How is my heart consumed, reft of its joy!" So meditating, like one torn by thoughts, She mounted to the palace-roof to see; And thence, in the mid-court, the car beheld Arriving. Rituparna and Vahuka She saw, with Vrishni's son, descend and loose The panting horses, wheeling back the car. Then Rituparna, alighting, sought the King, Bhima the Maharaja, far-renowned— Whom Bhima with fair courtesies received; Since well he deemed such breathless visit made With deep cause, knowing not the women's plots. "Swagatam!" cried he; "what hath brought thee, Prince?" For nothing wist he that the Raja came Suitor of Damayanti. Questioned so, This Raja Rituparna, wise and brave, Seeing no kings nor princes in the court, Nor noise of the Swayamvara, nor crowd Of Brahmans gathering—weighing all those things, Answered in this wise: "I am come, great Lord, To make thee salutations!" But the King Laughed in his beard at Rituparna's word— That this of many weary yojanas Should be the mark. "Ahoswid! Hath he passed Through twenty towns," thought he, "and hither flown To bid good-morrow? Nay, it is not that. Good! I shall know it when he bids me know." Thereat, with friendly speech his noble guest The King to rest dismissed. "Repose thyself," He said; "the road was long; weary thou art." And Rituparna, with sentences of grace Replying to this graciousness, was led By slaves to the allotted sleeping-room; And after Rituparna, Varshneya went. Vahuka, left alone, the chariot ran Into its shed, and from the foamy steeds Unbuckled all the harness, thong by thong, Speaking soft words to them; then sat him down, Alone, forgotten, on the driving-seat. But Damayanti, seeing Rituparna, And Vrishni's son, and him called Vahuka, Spake sorrowful: "Whose was the thunder, then, Of that fleet car? It seemed like Nala's own; Yet here I see no Nala! Hath yon man My lord's art learned, or th'other one, that thus Their car should thunder as when Nala comes? Could Rituparna drive as Nala doth, So that those chariot-wheels should sound like his?" And, after having pondered (O my King!), The beauteous Princess sent her handmaiden To Vahuka, that she might question him. "Go, Keshini," the Princess said; "inquire Who is that man upon the driving-seat, Misshapen, with the shrunken arm. Approach Composedly, question him winningly With greetings kind, and bid him answer thee According to the truth. I feel at heart A doubt—a hope—that this, perchance, may be My Lord and Prince; there is some new-born joy Fluttering within my breast. Accost him, girl; And, ere thou partest, what Parnada said, Say thou, and hear him answer, blameless one, And bring it on thy lips!" Then went the maid Demurely, and accosted Vahuka, While Damayanti watched them from the roof. "Kushalam te bravimi—health and peace I wish thee!" said she. "Wilt thou answer true What Damayanti asks? She sends to ask Whence set ye forth, and wherefore are ye come Hither? Vidarbha's Princess fain would know." "'Twas told my Raja," Vahuka replied, "That Damayanti for the second turn Holds her Swayamvara: the Brahman's word Was, "This shall be to-morrow." So he sped, Hearing that news, with steeds which in one day Fly fifty yojanas, swift as the winds, Exceeding fleet. His charioteer am I." "Who, then," Keshini asked, "is he that rode The third? whence cometh he, and what his race? And thou thyself whence sprung? and tell me why Thou servest thus?" Then Vahuka replied:— "Varshneya is the third who rode with us, The famous charioteer of Nala he: When thy Prince fled, he went to Koshala And took our service. I in horse-taming And dressing meat have skill; so am I made King Rituparna's driver and his cook." "Knoweth Varshneya, then, where Nala fled?" Inquired the maid; "and did he tell thee this, Or what spake he?" "Of that unhappy Prince He brought the children hither, and then went Even where he would, of Nala wotting nought; Nor wotteth any man, fair damsel! more. Hidden from mortal eyes Nishadha lives, Wandering the world, his very body changed. Of Nala only Nala's own heart knows, And by no sign doth he bewray himself." Keshini said: "That Brahman who did wend First to Ayodhya bore a verse to say Over and over, everywhere—strange words, Wove by a woman's wit. Listen to these:—