LITMIR.BIZ

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       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 Bráhmanas

       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 Subâhu. 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 Subâhu'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 Bráhmanas

       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,

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