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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 chakravâks, 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 Śuchi—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 Sârthâ[23] goes." Replied the captain: "Unto Chedi's realm, Where rules the just Subâhu, 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,
Yakshî or Rakshasî, 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
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