Save them, 'tis a common venture--fear ye not that I deceive."

Thus t' each other shrieked the merchants--as in fear they scattered round.

"Yet again I call upon you--cowards! think ye what ye do."

All around this frantic carnage--raging through the prostrate host, Damayanti, soon awakened--with her heart all full of dread; There she saw a hideous slaughter--the whole world might well appal.

To such sights all unfamiliar--gazed the queen with lotus eyes, Pressing in her breath with terror--slowly rose she on her feet.

And the few that scaped the carnage--few that scaped without a wound, All at once exclaimed together--"Of whose deeds is this the doom?

Hath not mighty Manibhadra--adoration meet received.

And Vaisravana the holy[96]--of the Yakshas lord and king, Have not all that might impede us--ere we journied, been addressed?

Was it doomed, that all good omens--by this chance should be belied!

Were no planets haply adverse?--how hath fate, like this, befall'n!"

Others answered in their misery--reft of kindred and of wealth, "Who is that ill-omened woman--that with maniac-staring eyes, Joined our host, misshaped in aspect--and with scarcely human form?

Surely all this wicked witchcraft--by her evil power is wrought; Witch or sorceress she, or daemon--fatal cause of all our fears, Hers is all the guilt, the misery--who such d.a.m.ning proof may doubt?

Could we but behold that false one--murtheress, bane of all our host, With the clods, the dust, the bamboos--with our staves, or with our hands, We would slay her on the instant--of our caravan the fate."

But no sooner Damayanti--their appalling words had heard, In her shame and in her terror--to the forest shade she fled.

And that guilt imputed dreading--thus her fate began to wail: "Woe is me, still o'er me hovers--the terrific wrath of fate; No good fortune e'er attends me--of what guilt is this the doom?

Not a sin can I remember--not the least to living man.

Or in deed, or thought, or language--of what guilt is this the doom?

In some former life committed[97]--expiate I now the sin.

To this infinite misfortune--hence by penal justice doomed?

Lost my husband, lost my kingdom--from my kindred separate; Separate from n.o.ble Nala--from my children far away, Widowed of my rightful guardian--in the serpent-haunted wood."

Of that caravan at morning--then the sad surviving few, Setting forth from that dread region--o'er that hideous carnage grieve; Each a brother mourns, or father--or a son, or dearest friend, Still Vidarbha's princess uttered--"What the sin that I have done?

Scarcely in this desert forest--had I met this host of men, By the elephants they perish--this is through my luckless fate; A still lengthening life of sorrow--I henceforth must sadly lead.

Ere his destined day none dieth--this of aged seers the lore; Therefore am not I too trampled--by this herd of furious beasts.

Every deed of living mortal--by over-ruling fate is done.

Yet no sin have I committed--in my blameless infancy, To deserve this dire disaster--or in word, or deed, or thought.

For the choosing of my husband--are the guardians of the world, Angry are the G.o.ds, rejected--for the n.o.ble Nala's sake?

From my lord this long divorcement--through their power do I endure."

Thus the n.o.blest of all women--to bewail her fate began, The deserted Damayanti--with these sad and bitter words; With some Veda-reading Brahmins--that survived that scattered host, Then she went her way in sadness--like the young moon's sickle pale, And ere long a mighty city--that afflicted queen drew near: 'Twas the king of Chedi's city--truth-discerning Subahu.

Scantly clad in half a garment--entered she that stately town; Her disturbed, emaciate, wretched--with dishevelled hair, unwashed, Like a maniac, onward-moving--saw that city's wondering throng; Gazing on her as she entered--to the monarch's royal seat; All the boys her footsteps followed--in their curious gamesome play;[98]

Circled round by these she wandered--near the royal palace gate.

From that palace lofty terrace--her the mother of the king Saw, and thus her nurse addressed she--"Go, and lead that wanderer in!

Sad she roves, without a refuge--troubled by those gazing men; Yet in form so bright, irradiate--is our palace where she moves.

Though so maniac-like, half-clothed--like Heaven's long-eyed queen she seems."

She those crowding men dispersing--quickly to the palace top Made her mount--and in amazement--her the mother-queen addressed: "Thus though bowed and worn with sorrow--such a shining form thou wear'st, As through murky clouds the lightning--tell me who thou art and whence: For thy form is more than human--of all ornament despoiled: Men thou fear'st not, unattended--in celestial beauty safe."

Hearing thus her gentle language--Bhima's daughter made reply, "Know me like thyself a mortal--a distressed, devoted wife; Of ill.u.s.trious race an handmaid--making where I will mine home; On the roots and wild-fruits feeding--lonely, at the fall of eve.

Gifted with unnumber'd virtues--is my true, my faithful lord, And I still the hero followed--like his shadow on the way.

'Twas his fate, with desp'rate fondness--to pursue the love of play, And in play subdued and ruined--entered he yon lonely wood; Him, arrayed in but one garment,--like a madman wandering wild, To console my n.o.ble husband--I too entered the deep wood; He within that dreary forest--for some cause, to me unknown, Wild with hunger, reft of reason--that one single robe he lost.

I with but one robe, him naked[99]--frantic, and with mind diseased, Following through the boundless forest--many a night I had not slept; Then, when I had sunk to slumber--me the blameless leaving there, Half my garment having severed--he his sinless consort fled; Seeking him, my outcast husband--night and day am I consumed: Him I see not, ever shining--like the lotus cup, beloved; Find him not, most like th' immortals--lord of all, my life, my soul."

Even as thus, with eyes o'erflowing--uttered she her sad lament, Sad herself, sad Bhima's daughter--did the mother queen address: "Dwell with me, then, n.o.ble Lady--deep the joy in thee I feel, And the servants of my household--shall thy royal husband seek; Haply hither he may wander--as he roams about the world: Dwelling here in peace and honour--thou thy husband wilt rejoin."

To the king of Chedi's mother--Damayanti made reply; "On these terms, O nurse of heroes!--I with thee may make abode: That I eat not broken victuals[100]--wash not feet with menial hand:[101]

Nor with stranger men have converse--in my chaste, secluded state; If that any man demand me--be he punished; if again, Be he put to death on th' instant--this the vow that I have sworn.

Only, if they seek my husband--holy Brahmins will I see.

Be my terms by thee accepted--gladly will I sojourn here, But on other terms no sojourn--will this heart resolved admit."

Then to her with joyful spirit--spake the mother of the king: "As thou wilt shall all be ordered--be thou blest, since such thy vow."

Speaking thus to Bhima's daughter--did the royal mother then, In these words address her daughter--young Sunanda was her name: "See this handmaid, my Sunanda--gifted with a form divine; She in age thy lovely compeer--be she to thee as a friend; Joined with her in sweet communion--take thy pleasure without fear."

Young Sunanda, all rejoicing--to her own abode went back, Taking with her Damayanti--circled with her virgin peers.

BOOK XIV.

Damayanti when deserting--royal Nala fled, ere long Blazing in the forest jungle--he a mighty fire beheld; Thence as of a living being--from the midst a voice he heard: "Hasten, Nala!" oft and loudly--"Punyasloka, haste," it cried.

"Fear thou not," king Nala answered--plunging in the ruddy flame; There he saw the king of serpents--lying, coiled into a ring.

There with folded hands the serpent--trembling, thus to Nala spake: "Me, Karkotaka, the Serpent--know, thou sovereign of men; Narada, the famous hermit[102]--I deceived, the holy sage; He in righteous indignation--smote me with this awful curse: Stay thou there as one unmoving--till king Nala pa.s.sing by, Lead thee hence; save only Nala--none can free thee from this curse.

Through this potent execration--I no step have power to move; I the way to bliss will show thee--if thou sav'st me from this fate.

I will show thee n.o.ble friendship--serpent none is like to me; Lightly shall I weigh, uplift me--in thy hand, with speed, O king."

Thus when spake the king of serpents--to a finger's size he shrank; Him when Nala lightly lifted--to the unburning s.p.a.ce he pa.s.sed.

To the air all cool and temperate--brought him, by the flame unreached.

As he fain on th' earth would place him--thus Karkotaka began.

"Move thou now, O king, and slowly--as thou movest, count thy steps.

Then the best of all good fortune--will I give thee, mighty armed!"

Ere the tenth step he had counted[103]--him the sudden serpent bit: As he bit him, on the instant--all his kingly form was changed.

There he stood, and gazed in wonder--Nala, on his altered form.

In his proper shape the serpent--saw the sovereign of men.

Then Karkotaka the serpent--thus to Nala comfort spake: "Through my power thy form is altered--lest thou should'st be known of men.

He through whom thou'rt thus afflicted--Nala, with intensest grief, Through my poison, shall in anguish--ever dwell within thy soul.

All his body steeped in poison--till he free thee from thy woe, Shall he dwell within thee prison'd--in the ecstacy of pain.

So from him, by whom, thou blameless!--sufferest such unworthy wrong, By the curse I lay upon him--my deliverance shall be wrought.

Fear not thou the tusked wild boar--foeman fear not thou, O king, Neither Brahmin fear, nor Sages[104]--safe through my prevailing power.

King, this salutary poison--gives to thee nor grief nor pain; In the battle, chief of Rajas--victory is ever thine.

Go thou forth, thyself thus naming--Vahuca, the charioteer, To the royal Rituparna--in the dice all-skilful he; To Ayodhya's pleasant city--sovereign of Nishadha! go; He his skill in dice will give thee--for thy skill in taming steeds: Of Ikshwaku's n.o.ble lineage--he will be thy best of friends.

Thou the skill in dice possessing--soon wilt rise again to bliss; With thy consort reunited--yield not up thy soul to grief.

Thou thy kingdom, thou thy children--wilt regain, the truth I speak.

When again thou would'st behold thee--in thy proper form, O king, Summon me to thy remembrance--and this garment put thou on: In this garment clad resum'st thou--instantly thy proper form."

Saying thus, of vests celestial--gave he to the king a pair.[105]

And king Nala, thus instructed--gifted with these magic robes, Instantly the king of serpents--vanished from his sight away.

BOOK XV.

Vanished thus the King of Serpents--set Nishadha's raja forth, Rituparna's royal city--on the tenth day entered he.

Straight before the royal presence--"Vahuca am I," he said, "In the skill of taming horses--on the earth is not my peer; Use me, where the difficult counsel--where thou want'st the dexterous hand; In the art of dressing viands[106]--I am skilful above all.

Whatsoe'er the art, whatever--be most difficult to do, I will strive to execute it--take me to thy service, king."

RITUPARNA _spake_.

"Vahuca, I bid thee welcome--all this service shalt thou do, On my horses' rapid motion--deeply is my mind engaged.

Take thou then on thee the office--that my steeds be fleet of foot, Of my horse be thou the master--hundred hundreds is thy pay:[107]

Ever shalt thou have for comrades--Varshneya and Jivala: With these two pursue thy pleasure--Vahuca, abide with me."

Thus addressed, did Nala, honoured--by king Rituparna long, With Varshneya in that city--and with Jivala abide: There abode he, sadly thinking--of Vidarbha's daughter still.

In the evening, every evening--uttered he this single verse; "Where is she, by thirst and hunger--worn, and weary, pious still, Thinking of her unwise husband--in whose presence is she now!"

Thus the raja, ever speaking--Jivala one night addressed; "Who is she, for whom thou grievest?--Vahuca, I fain would hear."

[108]Answered thus the royal Nala--"To a man of sense bereft, Once belonged a peerless lady--most infirm of word was he; From some cause from her dissevered--went that frantic man away, In his foolish soul thus parted--wanders he, by sorrow racked; Night and day, and still for ever--by his parching grief consumed: Nightly brooding o'er his sorrows--sings he this sad single verse.

O'er the whole wide earth a wanderer--chance-alighting in some place, Dwells that woful man, unworthy,--ever wakeful with his grief.

Him that n.o.ble lady following--in the forest lone and dread, Lives, of that bad man forsaken--hard it is to say, she lives!