"To the realm of Chedi's sovereign[92]—truth-discerning Subahu,
Soon this caravan will enter—travelling in search of gain."

[93]This, the lovely princess hearing—from the captain of the band,
With the caravan set forward—seeking still her royal lord.
Long their journey through the forest—through the dark and awful glens;
Then a lake of loveliest beauty—fragrant with the lotus flowers,
Saw those merchants, wide and pleasant—with fresh grass and shady trees;
Flowers and fruits bedecked its borders—where the birds melodious sang:
In its clear delicious waters—soul-enchanting, icy cool,
With their horses all o'erwearied—thought they then to plunge and bathe;
At the signal of the captain—entered all that pleasant grove.
At the close of day arriving—there encamped they for the night.
When the midnight came, all noiseless—came in silence deep and still,
Weary slept the band of merchants—lo, a herd of elephants,[94]
Oozing moisture from their temples—came to drink the troubled stream.
When that caravan they gazed on—with their slumbering beasts at rest,
The tame elephants they scented—those wild forest elephants;
Forward rush they fleet and furious—mad to slay, and wild with heat;
Irresistible the onset—of the rushing ponderous beasts,
As the peaks from some high mountain—down the valley thundering roll;
Strewn was all the way before them—with the boughs, the trunks of trees;
On they crash'd to where the travellers—slumbered by the lotus lake.
Trampled down without a struggle—helpless on the earth they lay,
"Woe, oh, woe!" shrieked out the merchants—wildly some began to fly,
In the forest thickets' plunging;—some stood gasping, blind with sleep;
And the elephants down beat them—with their tusks, their trunks, their feet.
Many saw their camels dying—mingled with the men on foot,
And in frantic tumult rushing—wildly struck each other down;
Many miserably shrieking—cast them down upon the earth,
Many climbed the trees in terror—on the rough ground stumbled some.
Thus in various wise and fatal—by the elephants assailed,
Lay that caravan so wealthy—scattered all abroad or slain.
Such, so fearful was the tumult—the three worlds seemed all appalled,[95]
"'Tis a fire amid th' encampment—save ye, fly ye, for your lives.
Lo, your precious pearls ye trample—take them up, why fly so fast?
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 dæmon—fatal cause of all our fears,
Hers is all the guilt, the misery—who such damning 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 noble 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 gods, rejected—for the noble Nala's sake?
From my lord this long divorcement—through their power do I endure."
Thus the noblest 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 illustrious 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 noble 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, noble 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.

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 passing 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 noble 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 space he passed.
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 Ikshwàku's noble 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.

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."

"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 noble lady following—in the forest lone and dread,
Lives, of that bad man forsaken—hard it is to say, she lives!
Lone, and young, the ways unknowing—undeserving of such fate,
Pines she there with thirst and hunger—hard it is to say, she lives.
In that vast and awful forest—haunted by fierce beasts of prey,
By her lord she roams forsaken—hapless, by that luckless lord."
Thus remembering Damayanti—did Nishadha's king unknown,
Long within that dwelling sojourn—in the palace of the king.

Nala thus bereft of kingdom—with his wife to slavery sunk,
Forth king Bhima sent the Brahmins—Nala through the world to seek.
Thus the royal Bhima charged them—with abundant wealth supplied:—
"Go ye now and seek king Nala—Damayanti seek, my child:
And, achieved this weighty business—found Nishadha's royal lord,
Whosoe'er shall hither bring them—shall a thousand kine receive;
And a royal grant for maintenance[109]—of a village like a town.
If nor hither Damayanti—nor king Nala may be brought,
Know we where they are, rich guerdon—still we give, ten hundred kine."
Thus addressed, the joyful Brahmins—went to every clime of earth,
Through the cities, through the kingdoms—seeking Nala and his queen:
Nala, or king Bhima's daughter—in no place might they behold.
Then a Brahmin, named Sudeva—came to pleasant Chedi-pur;
There within the kingly palace—he Vidarbha's daughter saw,
Standing with the fair Sunanda—on a royal holiday.[110]
With her beauty once so peerless—worthy now of little praise,
Like the sun-light feebly shining—through the dimness of a cloud.
Gazing on the large-eyed princess—dull in look, and wasted still,
Lo, he thought, king Bhima's daughter—pondering thus within his mind.—

"Even as once I wont to see her—such is yonder woman's form,
I my work have done, beholding—like the goddess world-adored,
Like the full moon, darkly beauteous—with her fair and swelling breasts,
Her, the queen, that with her brightness—makes each clime devoid of gloom,
With her lotus eyes expanding—like Manmatha's queen divine;[111]
Like the moonlight in its fulness—the desire of all the world.
From Vidarbha's pleasant waters—her by cruel fate plucked up,
[112]Like a lotus flower uprooted—with the mire and dirt around:
Like the pallid night, when Rahu[113]—swallows up the darkened moon:
For her husband wan with sorrow—like a gentle stream dried up;
Like a pool, where droops the lotus—whence the affrighted birds have fled,
By the elephant's proboscis—in its quiet depths disturbed.
Tender, soft-limbed, in a palace—fit, of precious stones, to dwell.
Like the lotus stem, uprooted—parched and withered by the sun.
Fair in form, in soul as generous—worthy of all bliss, unbless'd,
Like the young moon's slender crescent—in the heavens by dark clouds veiled.
Widowed now of all love's pleasures—of her noble kin despoiled,
Wretched, bearing life, her husband—in her hope again to see.
To the unadorned, a husband[114]—is the chiefest ornament;
Of her husband if forsaken—she in splendour is not bright.
Difficult must be the trial—does king Nala, reft of her,
Still retain his wretched body—nor with sorrow pine away?
Her with her dark flowing tresses—with her long and lotus eyes,
Worthy of all joy, thus joyless—as I see, my soul is wrung.
To the furthest shore of sorrow—when will pass this beauteous queen?
To her husband reunited—as the moon's bride[115] to the moon?
Her recovering shall king Nala—to his happiness return,
King, albeit despoiled of kingdom—he his realm shall reassume;
In their age and virtues equal—equal in their noble race,
He alone of her is worthy—worthy she alone of him.
Me beseems it of that peerless—of that brave and prudent king,
To console the loyal consort—pining for her husband's sight.
Her will I address with comfort—with her moonlike glowing face.
Her with woe once unacquainted—woful now and lost in thought."
Thus when he had gazed and noted—all her marks, her features well,
To the daughter of king Bhima—thus the sage Sudeva spake:
"I am named Sudeva, lady—I, thy brother's chosen friend,
By king Bhima's royal mandate—hither come in search of thee.
Well thy sire, thy royal mother—well thy noble brethren fare,
And well fare those little infants—well and happy are they both.
For thy sake thy countless kindred—sit as though of sense bereft:
Seeking thee a hundred Brahmins—now are wandering o'er the earth."
She no sooner knew Sudeva—Damayanti, of her kin,
Many a question asked in order—and of every friend beloved.
And the daughter of Vidarbha—freely wept, so sudden thus
On Sudeva, best of Brahmins—gazing, on her brother's friend.
Her beheld the young Sunanda—weeping, wasted with distress,
As she thus her secret converse—with the wise Sudeva held.
Thus she spake unto her mother—"Lo, how fast our handmaid weeps,
Since her meeting with the Brahmin—who she is, thou now may'st know."
Forth the king of Chedi's mother—from the inner chamber went,
And she passed where with the Brahmin—that mysterious woman stood.
Them the mother queen Sudeva—bade before her presence stand;
And she asked, "Whose wife, whose daughter—may this noble stranger be?
From her kindred how dissevered—from her husband, the soft-eyed?
Is she known to thee, O Brahmin—canst thou tell from whence she came?
This I fain would hear, and clearly—all her strange and wonderous tale.
Tell me all that hath befallen—to this heaven-formed, plainly tell."
Best of Brahmins, thus Sudeva—by the mother queen addressed,
All the truth of Damayanti—sitting at his ease, declared.

"In Vidarbha the just monarch—Bhima, in his glory dwells.
Of that king is she the daughter—Damayanti is her name;
And the raja of Nishadha—Nala, Virasena's son,
Of that king is she the consort—Punyasloka named, the Wise.
Him in play his brother worsted—spoiled of realm the king of earth:
He set forth with Damayanti—whither is unknown of men.
For the sake of Damayanti—wander we about the earth;
Till I found yon noble woman—in the palace of your son.
Like to her of mortal women—is there none, her beauty's peer;
In the midst, between her eyebrows—from her birth a lovely mole,
Dark was seen, and like a lotus—that hath vanished from my sight,
Covered over with defilement—like the moon behind a cloud.
This soft mark of perfect beauty—fashioned thus by Brahma's self,
As at change the moon's thin crescent—only dim and faintly gleams.
Yet her beauty is not faded—clouded o'er with toil and mire
Though she be, it shines apparent, like the native unwrought gold.
With that beauteous form yon woman—gifted with that lovely mole,
Instant knew I for the Princess—as the heat betrays the fire."

To Sudeva as she listened—uttering thus his strange discourse:
All the dust that mole concealing—young Sunanda washed away.
By the obscuring dust unclouded—shining out that mole appeared;
On the brow of Damayanti—like the unclouded moon in heaven.
Gazing on that mole, Sunanda—and the mother of the king,
Wept as fondly they embraced her—and an instant silent stood.
Then her tears awhile suppressing—thus the royal mother spake:
"Thou art mine own sister's daughter—by that beauteous mole made known;
I, Oh beauteous, and thy mother—of that lofty-minded king,
Are the daughters, king Sudaman—he that in Dasarna[116] reigns;
She was wedded to king Bhima—and to Viravahu I.
In my fathers home, Dasarna—once I saw thee, newly born.
As to me thy father's lineage—is akin, so mine to thee;
Whatsoe'er my power commandeth—Damayanti, all is thine."
To the queen did Damayanti—in the gladness of her heart,
Having bowed in courteous homage—to her mother's sister, speak:
"While unknown I might continue—gladly dwelt I here with thee;
Every want supplied on th' instant—guarded by thy gentle care.
Yet than even this pleasant dwelling—a more pleasant may there be;
Long a banished woman, mother!—give me leave from hence to part,
Thither where my infant children—dwell my tender little ones,
Orphaned of their sire, in sorrow—orphaned, ah, how long of me!
If thou yet wilt grant a favour—o'er all other favours dear,
To Vidarbha would I journey—quick the palanquin command."
"Be it so," her mother's sister—joyful, instant made reply.
Guarded by a mighty army—with th' approval of her son,
Sent the queen, that happy lady—in a palanquin, by men
Borne aloft, and well provided—with all raiment, drink, and food.
Thus the princess to Vidarbha—after brief delay returned.
Her her whole assembled kindred—welcomed home with pride and joy,
All in health she found her kinsmen-and that lovely infant pair,
With her mother, with her father—and her sister troop of friends.
To the gods she paid her worship—to the Brahmins in her joy;
So the queenly Damayanti—all in noblest guise performed.
And her royal sire Sudeva—with the thousand kine made glad,
Joyous to behold his daughter,—with a village and much wealth.
There, when in her father's palace—she the quiet night had passed,
In these words the noble lady—to her mother gan to speak:
"If in life thou would'st preserve me—mother, hear the truth I speak;
Home to bring the hero Nala—be it now thy chiefest toil."
Thus addressed by Damayanti—very sorrowful the queen
Clouded all her face with weeping—not a word in answer spake.
But the princess, thus afflicted—when the female train beheld,
"Woe! oh woe!" they shrieked together—all in pitying sadness wept.
To the mighty raja Bhima—did the queen that speech relate.
"'Damayanti, Lo thy daughter—for her husband sits and mourns.'
Breaking through all bashful silence—thus, oh king, to me she spake:
'Be it now thy servants' business—to find out the king of men.'"
Urged by her the king his Brahmins—to his will obedient all,
Sent around to every region—"Be your care the king to find."
Then those Brahmins at the mandate—of Vidarbha's royal lord,
First drew near to Damayanti—"Lo, now set we forth," they said.
Then to them spake Bhima's daughter—"In all realms be this your speech,
Wheresoever men assemble—this repeat again, again:
Whither went'st thou then, oh gamester!—half my garment severing off,
Leaving me within the forest—all forsaken, thy beloved.
Even as thou commandedst, sits she—sadly waiting thy return.
Parched with sorrow sits that woman—in her scant half garment glad.
Oh to her thus ever weeping—in the extreme of her distress,
Grant thy pity, noble hero—answer to her earnest prayer.
Be this also said, to move him—to compassionate my state,
(By the wind within the forest—fanned, intensely burns the fire).[117]
Ever by her consort cherished—and sustained the wife should be.
Why hast thou forgot that maxim—thou in every duty skilled.
Thou wert ever called the generous—thou the gentle and the wise.
Art thou now estranged from pity—through my sad injurious fate.
Prince of men, O grant thy pity—grant it, lord of men, to me;
'Mercy is the chief of duties,'—oft from thine own lips I've heard.
Thus as ye are ever speaking—should there any one reply,
Mark him well, lest he be Nala—who he is, and where he dwells.
He who to this speech hath listened—and hath thus his answer made,
Be his words, O best of Brahmins—treasured and brought home to me,
Lest he haply should discover—that by my command ye speak,
That again ye may approach him—do ye this without delay.
Whether he be of the wealthy—whether of the poor he be;
Be he covetous of riches—learn ye all he would desire."
Thus addressed, went forth the Brahmins—to the realms on every side,
Seeking out the royal Nala—in his dark concealed distress.
They through royal cities, hamlets—pastoral dwellings, hermits' cells,
Nala every-where went seeking—yet those Brahmins found him not.
All in every part went speaking—in the language they were taught;
In the words of Damayanti—spake they in the ears of men.

Long the time that passed, a Brahmin—wise Parnada was his name,
Home returning to the city—thus to Bhima's daughter spake:
"Damayanti! royal Nala—as I sought Nishadha's king,
Came I to Ayodhya's city—the Bhangasuri's abode.
Stood before me, eager listening—to the words thou bad'st us speak,
He, the prosperous Rituparna—all excelling! such his name.
Thus as spake I, answered nothing—Rituparna, king of men;
Nor of all that full assemblage—more than once addressed by me.
By the king dismissed, when sate I—in a solitary place,
One of Rituparna's household—Vahuca, his name, drew near,
Charioteer of that great raja—with short arms and all deformed,
Skilled to drive the rapid chariot—skilled the viands to prepare.
He, when much he'd groaned in anguish—and had wept again, again,
First his courteous salutation—made, then spake in words like these:
Even in the extreme of misery—noble women still preserve,
Over their ownselves the mastery—by their virtues winning heaven;
Of their faithless lords abandoned—anger feel not even then.
In the breastplate of their virtue—noble women live unharmed.
By the wretched, by the senseless—by the lost to every joy,
She by such a lord forsaken—yet to anger will not yield.
Against him his sustenance seeking—of his robe by birds despoiled,
Him consumed with utmost misery—still no wrath the dark-hued feels;
Treated well, or ill entreated—when her husband she beholds,
Spoiled of bliss, bereft of kingdom—famine-wasted, worn with woe.
Having heard the stranger's language—hither hasted I to come.
Thou hast heard, be thine the judgment—to the king relate thou all."
To Parnada having listened—with her eyes o'erflowed with tears,
Secretly went Damayanti—and her mother thus addressed:
"Let not what I speak to Bhima—O my mother, be made known—
In thy presence to Sudeva—best of Brahmins, I would speak.
Let not this my secret counsel—to king Bhima be disclosed;
This the object we must compass—if thy daughter thou wouldst please,
As myself was to my kindred—swiftly by Sudeva brought,
With the same good fortune swiftly—may Sudeva part from hence,
Home to bring the royal Nala—mother, to Ayodhya's town."
Resting from his toil, Parnada—of the Brahmin race the best,
Did the daughter of Vidarbha—honour, and with wealth reward.
"Brahmin! home if come my Nala—richer guerdon will I give;
Much hast thou achieved, and wisely—so as none but thou has done.
That again with my lost husband—noblest Brahmin, I may meet."
Thus addressed, his grateful homage—and his benedictions paid,
Having thus achieved his mission—home the wise Parnada went.
Then accosting good Sudeva—Damayanti thus began,
And before her mother's presence—in her pain and grief she spake:
"Go, Sudeva, to the city—where Ayodhya's raja dwells,
Speak thou thus to Rituparna—Come, as of thine own accord.
Once again her Swayembara—does king Bhima's daughter hold;
Damayanti, thither hasten—all the kings and sons of kings;
Closely now the time is reckoned—when to-morrow's dawn appears;
If that thou would'st win the Princess—speed thou, tamer of thy foes.
When the sun is in his rising—she a second lord will choose:
Whether lives or is not living—royal Nala, no one knows."
Thus, as he received his mission—hastening to the king, he spake,
To the royal Rituparna—spake Sudeva, in these words.