Then they both became eager for the Gándharva form of marriage, but

the Ganas stupefied them, and laid them to sleep. And, as soon as

Srídarsana fell asleep, they took him and carried him back to his own

palace, cheated by Destiny of his desire. Then Srídarsana woke up in

his own palace, and seeing himself decked with the ornaments of a lady,

he thought, "What does this mean? At one moment I am in that heavenly

palace with the daughter of the king of Hansadvípa, at another moment

I am here. It cannot be a dream, for here are these ornaments of hers

on my wrist, so it must be some strange freak of Destiny." While he

was engaged in these speculations, his wife Padmishthá woke up, and

questioned him, and the kind woman comforted him, and so he passed

the night. And the next morning he told the whole story to Srísena,

before whom he appeared wearing the ornaments marked with the name of

Anangamanjarí. And the king, wishing to please him, had a proclamation

made by beat of drum, to find out where Hansadvípa was, but could

not find out from any one the road to that country. Then Srídarsana,

separated from Anangamanjarí, remained overpowered by the fever of

love, averse to all enjoyment. He could not like his food while he

gazed on her ornaments, necklace and all, and he abandoned sleep,

having ceased to behold within reach the lotus of her face. [252]

In the meanwhile the princess Anangamanjarí, in Hansadvípa, was

awakened in the morning by the sound of music. When she remembered

what had taken place in the night, and saw her body adorned with

Srídarsana's ornaments, longing love made her melancholy. And she

reflected, "Alas I am brought into a state, in which my life is in

danger, by these ornaments, which prove that I cannot have been deluded

by a dream, and fill me with love for an unattainable object." While

she was engaged in these reflections, her father Anangodaya suddenly

entered, and saw her wearing the ornaments of a man. The king,

who was very fond of her, when he saw her covering her body with her

clothes, and downcast with shame, took her on his lap and said to her,

"My daughter, what is the meaning of these masculine decorations, and

why this shame? Tell me. Do not shew a want of confidence in me, for

my life hangs on you." These and other kind speeches of her father's

allayed her feeling of shame, and she told him at last the whole story.

Then her father, thinking that it was a piece of supernatural

enchantment, felt great doubt as to what steps he ought to take. So

he went and asked an ascetic of the name of Brahmasoma, who possessed

superhuman powers, and observed the rule of the Pásupatas, and who

was a great friend of his, for his advice. The ascetic by his powers

of contemplation penetrated the mystery, and said to the king; "The

truth is that the Ganas brought here prince Srídarsana from Málava,

for Ganesa is favourably disposed both to him and your daughter,

and by his favour he shall become a universal monarch. So he is a

capital match for your daughter." When that gifted seer said this,

the king bowed and said to him,--"Holy seer, Málava is far away from

this great land of Hansadvípa. The road is a difficult one, and this

matter does not admit of delay. So in this matter your ever propitious

self is my only stay."

When the ascetic, who was so kind to his admirers, had been thus

entreated by the king, he said, "I myself will accomplish this,"

and he immediately disappeared. And he reached in a moment the city

of king Srísena in Málava. There he entered the very temple built by

Srídarsana, and after bowing before Ganesa, he sat down and began

to praise him, saying "Hail to thee of auspicious form, whose head

is crowned with a garland of stars, so that thou art like the peak

of mount Meru! I adore thy trunk flung up straight in the joy of

the dance, so as to sweep the clouds, like a column supporting the

edifice of the three worlds. Destroyer of obstacles, I worship thy

snake-adorned body, swelling out into a broad pitcher-like belly,

the treasure-house of all success." While the ascetic was engaged

in offering these praises to Ganesa in the temple, it happened that

the son of the merchant-prince Upendrasakti, who brought his image,

entered the temple as he was roaming about. His name was Mahendrasakti,

and he had been rendered uncontrollable by long and violent madness,

so he rushed forward to seize the ascetic. Then the ascetic struck

him with his hand. The merchant's son, as soon as he was struck by

the charm-bearing hand of that ascetic, was freed from madness and

recovered his reason. And, as he was naked, he felt shame, and left

the temple immediately, and covering himself with his hand, he made

for his home. Immediately his father Upendrasakti, hearing of it from

the people, met him full of joy and led him to his house. There he had

him bathed, and properly clothed and adorned, and then he went with

him to the ascetic Brahmasoma. And he offered him much wealth as the

restorer of his son, but the ascetic, as he possessed godlike power,

would not receive it.

In the meanwhile king Srísena himself, having heard what had

taken place, reverently approached the ascetic, accompanied by

Srídarsana. And the king bowed before him, and praised him, and said,

"Owing to your coming, this merchant has received a benefit, by having

his son restored to health, so do me a benefit also by ensuring

the welfare of this son of mine Srídarsana." When the king craved

this boon of the ascetic, he smiled and said, "King, why should I do

anything to please this thief, who stole at night the heart and the

ornaments of the princess Anangamanjarí in Hansadvípa, and returned

here with them? Nevertheless I must obey your orders." With these words

the ascetic seized Srídarsana by the fore-arm, and disappeared with

him. He took him to Hansadvípa, and introduced him into the palace of

king Anangodaya, with his daughter's ornaments on him. When Srídarsana

arrived, the king welcomed him gladly, but first he threw himself

at the feet of the ascetic and blessed him. And on an auspicious

day he gave Srídarsana his daughter Anangamanjarí, as if she were

the earth garlanded with countless jewels. And then by the power of

that ascetic he sent his son-in-law, with his wife, to Málava. And

when Srídarsana arrived there, the king welcomed him gladly, and he

lived there in happiness with his two wives.

In course of time king Srísena went to the next world, and that

hero took his kingdom and conquered the whole earth. And when he

had attained universal dominion, he had two sons by his two wives

Padmishthá and Anangamanjarí. And to one of them the king gave the

name of Padmasena, and to the other of Anangasena, and he reared them

up to manhood.

And in course of time king Srídarsana, as he was sitting inside the

palace with his two queens, heard a Bráhman lamenting outside. So he

had the Bráhman brought inside, and asked him why he lamented. Then

the Bráhman shewed great perturbation and said to him; "The fire

that had points of burning flame (Díptasikhu) has been now destroyed

by a dark cloud of calamity, discharging a loud laugh (Attahása),

together with its line of brightness and line of smoke (Jyotirlekhá

and Dhúmalekhá)." [253] The moment the Bráhman had said this, he

disappeared. And while the king was saying in his astonishment,

"What did he say, and where has he gone," the two queens, weeping

copiously, suddenly fell dead.

When the king saw that sudden calamity, terrible as the stroke

of a thunderbolt, he exclaimed in his grief, "Alas! Alas! what

means this?" and fell on the ground wailing. And when he fell,

his attendants picked him up, and carried him to another place,

and Mukharaka took the bodies of the queens, and performed the

ceremony of burning them. At last the king came to his senses, and

after mourning long for the queens, he completed out of affection

their funeral ceremonies. And after he had spent a day darkened by a

storm of tears, he divided the empire of the earth between his two

sons. Then, having conceived the design of renouncing the world,

he left his city, and turning back his subjects who followed him,

he went to the forest to perform austerities.

There he lived on roots and fruits, and one day, as he was wandering

about at will, he came near a banyan-tree. As soon as he came near it,

two women of celestial appearance suddenly issued from it with roots

and fruits in their hands, and they said to him, "King, take these

roots and fruits which we offer." When he heard that, he said, "Tell me

now who you are." Then those women of heavenly appearance said to him,

"Well come into our house and we will tell you the truth." When he

heard that, he consented, and entering with them, he saw inside the

tree a splendid golden city. There he rested and ate heavenly fruits,

and then those women said to him, "Now, king, hear."

"Long ago there dwelt in Pratishthána a Bráhman, of the name of

Kamalagarbha, and he had two wives, the name of the one was Pathyá,

and the name of the other Abalá. Now in course of time all three,

the husband and the wives, were worn out with old age, and at last

they entered the fire together, being attached to one another. And

at that time they put up a petition to Siva from the fire, 'May we be

connected together as husband and wives in all our future lives!' Then

Kamalagarbha, owing to the power of his severe penances, was born in

the Yaksha race as Díptasikha, the son of the Yaksha Pradíptáksha,

and the younger brother of Attahása. His wives too, Pathyá and Abalá,

were born as Yaksha maidens, that is to say, as the two daughters of

the king of the Yakshas named Dhúmaketu, and the name of the one was

Jyotirlekhá, and the name of the other Dhúmalekhá.

"Now in course of time those two sisters grew up, and they went to

the forest to perform asceticism, and they propitiated Siva with

the view of obtaining husbands. The god was pleased and he appeared

to them and said to them, 'That man with whom you entered the fire

in a former birth, and who you asked might be your husband in all

subsequent births, was born again as a Yaksha named Díptasikha, the

brother of Attahása, but he has become a mortal owing to the curse of

his master, and has been born as a man named Srídarsana, so you too

must go to the world of men and be his wives there, but as soon as

the curse terminates, you shall all become Yakshas, husband and wives

together.' When Siva said this, those two Yaksha maidens were born

on the earth as Padmishthá and Anangamanjarí. They became the wives

of Srídarsana, and after they had been his wives for some time, that

Attahása, as fate would have it, came there in the form of a Bráhman,

and by the device of employing an ambiguous speech, he managed to

utter their names and remind them of their former existence, and this

made them abandon that body and become Yakshinís. "Know that we are

those wives of yours, and you are that Díptasikha." When Srídarsana

had been thus addressed by them, he remembered his former birth, and

immediately became the Yaksha Díptasikha, and was again duly united

to those two wives of his.

"Know therefore, Vichitrakatha, that I am that Yaksha, and that these

wives of mine are Jyotirlekhá and Dhúmalekhá. So, if creatures of

godlike descent, like myself, have to endure such alternations of joy

and sorrow, much more then must mortals. But do not be despondent,

my son, for in a short time you shall be reunited to your master

Mrigánkadatta. And I remained here to entertain you, for this is my

earthly dwelling, so stay here, I will accomplish your desire. Then

I will go to my own home in Kailása." When the Yaksha had in these

words told me his story, he entertained me for some time. And the

kind being, knowing that you had arrived here at night, brought me

and laid me asleep in the midst of you who were asleep. So I was seen

by you, and you have been found by me. This, king, is the history of

my adventures during my separation from you."

When prince Mrigánkadatta had heard at night this tale from his

minister Vichitrakatha, who was rightly named, [254] he was much

delighted, and so were his other ministers.

So, after he had spent that night on the turf of the forest, he

went on with those companions of his towards Ujjayiní, having his

mind fixed on obtaining Sasánkavatí, and he kept searching for those

other companions of his, who were separated by the curse of the Nága,

and whom he had not yet found.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

Then Mrigánkadatta, as he gradually travelled along in the Vindhya

forest, accompanied by those ministers, Srutadhi and the four others,

reached a wood, which was refreshing with the shade of its goodly

fruit-laden trees, and in which there was a tank of very pure sweet

cold water. He bathed in it with his ministers and ate many fruits,

and lo! he suddenly thought that he heard conversation in a place shut

in with creepers. So he went and looked into that bower of creepers,

and he saw inside it a great elephant, which was refreshing a blind

way-worn man by throwing over him showers of water from his trunk,

by giving him fruits, and fanning him with his ears. And like a kind

man, the elephant said to him lovingly, over and over again, with

articulate voice, "Do you feel at all better?" When the prince saw

that, he was astonished, and he said to his companions, "Look! how

comes it that a wild elephant conducts itself like a man? So you may

be sure that this is some higher being translated into this form for

some reason. And this man is very like my friend Prachandasakti. But

he is blind. So let us keep a sharp lookout." When Mrigánkadatta had

said this to his friends, he remained there concealed, and listened

attentively. In the meanwhile the blind man recovered a little, and the

elephant said to him, "Tell me; who are you, and how did you come here,

being blind?" Then the blind man said to that mighty elephant, "There

is in this land a king of the name of Amaradatta, lord of the city

of Ayodhyá, he has a son of excellent qualities, named Mrigánkadatta,

of auspicious birth, and I am that prince's servant. For some reason

or other his father banished him from his native land, with us his

ten companions. We had set out for Ujjayiní to obtain Sasánkavatí,

when we were separated in the forest by the curse of a Nága. And I

was blinded by his curse, and wandering about I have arrived here,

living on the fruits, and roots, and water I could get on the way. And

to me death by falling into a chasm, or in some other way, would be

most desirable, but alas! Providence has not bestowed it on me, but

makes me endure calamity. However I feel convinced that, as my pangs

of hunger have been to-day assuaged by your favour, so my blindness

also will be somewhat alleviated, for you are a divinity." When he said

this, Mrigánkadatta felt certain who he was, and with a mind wavering

between joy and grief he said to those ministers, "It is our friend

Prachandasakti that is reduced to this melancholy state, but it will

not do for us to be in a hurry to greet him immediately. Perhaps

this elephant will cure his blindness. But if he were to see us,

he would flee away; so we must stop here and look at him." When the

prince had said this, he remained listening with his followers. Then

Prachandasakti said to that elephant, "Now great-souled one, tell

me your history; who are you? How comes it that, though you are an

elephant, and are subject to the fury of elephants, you speak in

this gentle way?" When the great elephant heard this, he sighed,

and said to him, "Listen! I will tell you my story from the beginning."

Story of Bhímabhata.

Long ago, in the city of Ekalavyá, there was a king named Srutadhara,

and he had two sons by two wives. When the king went to heaven,

his younger son, named Satyadhara, expelled the elder son, named

Síladhara, from the throne. Síladhara was angry on that account, so

he went and propitiated Siva, and craved the following boon from the

god, who was pleased with his asceticism, "May I become a Gandharva,

in order that I may be able to move through the air, and so slay

with ease that kinsman of mine, Satyadhara!" When the holy god Siva

heard this, he said to him, "This boon shall be granted to thee, but

that enemy of thine has to-day died a natural death. And he shall be

again born in the city of Rádhá, as Samarabhata, the favourite son

of king Ugrabhata. But thou shalt be born as Bhímabhata, his elder

brother, by a different mother, and thou shalt kill him and rule the

kingdom. But because thou didst perform these ascetic penances under

the influence of anger, thou shalt be hurled from thy rank by the curse

of a hermit, and become a wild elephant, that remembers its birth and

possesses articulate speech, and when thou shalt comfort a guest in

distress and tell him thy history, then thou shalt be freed from thy

elephant-nature and become a Gandharva, and at the same time a great

benefit will be conferred upon that guest." When Siva had said this,

he disappeared, and Síladhara, seeing that his body was emaciated by

long penance, flung himself into the Ganges.

At this point of my tale it happened that, while that king named

Ugrabhata, whom I have before mentioned, was living happily in the city

of Rádhá with his wife Manoramá who was equal to him in birth, there

came to his court from a foreign country an actor named Lásaka. And

he exhibited before the king that dramatic piece in which Vishnu, in

the form of a woman, carries off the amrita from the Daityas. And in

that piece the king saw the actor's daughter Lásavatí dancing in the

character of Amritiká. When he saw her beauty, that was like that of

the real Amritá, with which Vishnu bewildered the Dánavas, he fell

in love with her. And at the end of the dance he gave her father

much wealth, and immediately introduced her into his harem. And

then he married that dancer Lásavatí, and lived with her, having

his eyes riveted upon her face. One day he said to his chaplain named

Yajuhsvámin, "I have no son, so perform a sacrifice in order to procure

me a son." The chaplain obeyed, and performed duly, with the help of

learned Bráhmans, a sacrifice for that king's benefit. And, as he had

been previously gained over by Manoramá, he gave her to eat, as being

the eldest queen, the first half of the oblation purified with holy

texts. [255] And he gave the rest to the second queen Lásavatí. Then

those two, Síladhara and Satyadhara, whom I have before mentioned, were

conceived in those two queens. And when the time came, Manoramá, the

consort of that king, brought forth a son with auspicious marks. And

at that moment a distinct utterance was heard from heaven, "This child

who is born shall be a famous king under the name of Bhímabhata." On

the next day Lásavatí also brought forth a son, and the king his

father gave him the name of Samarabhata. And the usual sacraments

were performed for them, and the two boys gradually grew up. But

the eldest Bhímabhata surpassed the youngest in all accomplishments,

and rivalry in these increased the natural ill-feeling between them.

One day, as they were engaged in wrestling, Samarabhata, being jealous,

struck Bhímabhata with his arm with great force on the neck. Then

Bhímabhata was enraged, and immediately throwing his arms round

Samarabhata, he lifted him up and flung him on the ground. The fall

gave him a severe shock, and his servants took him up and carried

him to his mother, discharging blood from all the apertures in his

body. When she saw him, and found out what had taken place, she was

alarmed on account of her love for him, and she placed her face close

to his and wept bitterly. At that moment the king entered, and when he

saw this sight, he was much troubled in mind, and asked Lásavatí what

it meant, and she gave the following answer: "This son of mine has been

reduced to this state by Bhímabhata. And he is always ill-treating him,

but I have never told you, king; however now, that I have seen this,

I must say, I cannot [256] understand how your majesty can be safe

with such a son as this, but let your majesty decide." When king

Ugrabhata was thus appealed to by his favourite wife, he was angry,

and banished Bhímabhata from his court. And he took away from him

his allowance, and appointed a hundred Rájpúts with their retainers

to guard that Samarabhata. And he put his treasury at the disposal

of the younger son, but he drove the elder son from his presence,

and took away all that he possessed.

Then his mother Manoramá sent for him and said, "Your father has

thrown you over, because he is in love with a dancer. So go to

the palace of my father in Pátaliputra, and when you arrive there,

your grandfather will give you his kingdom, for he has no son. But,

if you remain here, your enemy, this Samarabhata, will kill you, for

he is powerful." When Bhímabhata heard this speech of his mother's,

he said, "I am a Kshatriya, and I will not sneak away from my native

land, like a coward. Be of good cheer, mother! what wretch is able to

injure me?" When he said this, his mother answered him, "Then procure a

numerous body of companions to guard you, by means of my wealth." When

Bhímabhata heard this proposal, he said, "Mother, this is not becoming;

for if I did this, I should be really opposing my father. You may

be quite at your ease, for your blessing alone will procure me good

fortune." When Bhímabhata had encouraged her with these words, he

left her. In the meanwhile all the citizens came to hear of it, and

they thought, "Alas! a great injustice has been done to Bhímabhata by

the king. Surely Samarabhata does not think he is going to rob him of

the kingdom. Well it is an opportunity for us to do him a service,

before he comes to the throne." Having formed this resolution, the

citizens secretly supplied Bhímabhata with such abundance of wealth,

that he lived in great comfort with his servants. But the younger

brother was ever on the look out to kill his elder brother, supposing

that this was his father's object in furnishing him with a guard.

In the meanwhile a heroic and wealthy young Bráhman, of the name

of Sankhadatta, who was a friend of both brothers, came and said

to Samarabhata, "You ought not to carry on hostility with your

elder brother; it is not right, and you cannot do him an injury;

on the contrary the result of a quarrel would be disgraceful to

you." When he said this, Samarabhata abused and threatened him; good

advice given to a fool does not calm but rather enrages him. Then the

resolute Sankhadatta went away indignant at this treatment, and made

a strict friendship with Bhímabhata, in order to have the opportunity

of conquering Samarabhata.

Then a merchant, of the name of Manidatta, came there from a foreign

country, bringing with him an excellent horse; it was as white as the

moon; the sound of its neighing was as musical as that of a clear conch

or other sweet-sounding instrument; it looked like the waves of the

sea of milk surging on high; it was marked with curls on the neck;

and adorned with the crest-jewel, the bracelet, and other signs,

which it seemed as if it had acquired by being born in the race

of the Gandharvas. When Bhímabhata heard of that splendid horse,

which was mentioned to him by Sankhadatta, he went and bought it for

a high price from that merchant-prince. At that moment Samarabhata,

hearing of it, came and tried to buy the horse from the merchant for

double the price. But he refused to give it him, as it had already been

sold to another; then Samarabhata, out of envy, proceeded to carry it

off by force. Then there took place a fierce combat between those two

princes, as the adherents of both came running up with weapons in their

hands. Then the mighty arm of Bhímabhata laid low the attendants of

Samarabhata, and he himself abandoned the horse, and began to retire

through fear of his brother. But as he was retiring, Sankhadatta,

full of overpowering anger, pursued him, and laying hold of his hair

behind, was on the point of killing him, when Bhímabhata rushed up and

prevented him, saying, "Let be for the present, it would be a grief to

my father." Then Sankhadatta let Samarabhata go, and he fled in fear,

discharging blood from his wounds, and repaired to his father.

Then the brave Bhímabhata took possession of the horse, and immediately

a Bráhman came up to him, and taking him aside, said to him, "Your

mother the queen Manoramá, and the chaplain Yajuhsvámin, and Sumati,

the minister of your father, send you the following advice at this

juncture. "You know, [257] dear boy, how the king is always affected

towards you, and he is especially angry with you at present, now that

this misfortune has happened. So if you feel disposed to save your

own life, and to preserve glory, and justice inviolate, if you have

any regard for the future, if you consider us well disposed towards

you; leave this place unobserved this very evening, as soon as the

sun has set, and make for the palace of your maternal grandfather,

and may good fortune attend you. This is the message they gave me for

you, and they sent you this casket full of precious jewels and gold;

receive it from my hand." When the wise Bhímabhata heard this message,

he accepted it, saying, "I consent to act thus," and he took that

casket of gold and valuable jewels. And he gave him an appropriate

message to take back, and then dismissed him, and mounted that

horse, sword in hand. And Sankhadatta took some gold and jewels,

and mounted another horse. And then prince Bhímabhata set out with

him, and after he had gone a long distance, he reached at dead of

night a great thicket of reeds that lay in his way. As he and his

companion pursued their course through it without stopping, a couple

of lions, roused by the noise, which the reeds made when trampled by

the horses' hoofs, rushed out roaring, with their cubs, and began to

rip up the bellies of the horses with their claws. And immediately

the hero and his companion cut off the limbs of the lions with their

swords, and killed them. Then he got down with his friend to look at

the state of the two horses, but as their entrails were torn out,

they immediately fell down dead. When Bhímabhata saw that, he felt

despondent, and he said to Sankhadatta, "Friend, by a great effort

we have escaped from our hostile relatives. Tell me, where, even by

a hundred efforts, shall we find an escape from Fate, who has now

smitten us even here, not allowing us even to retain our horses. The

very horse, for which I abandoned my native land, is dead; so how can

we travel on foot through this forest at night?" When he said this,

his friend Sankhadatta answered him, "It is no new thing for hostile

Fate to conquer courage. This is its nature, but it is conquered by

firm endurance. What can Fate do against a firm unshaken man, any

more than the wind against a mountain? So come, let us mount upon the

horse of endurance and so plod on here." When Sankhadatta said this,

Bhímabhata set out with him. Then they slowly crossed that thicket,

wounding their feet with the canes, and at last the night came

to an end. And the sun, the lamp of the world, arose, dispelling

the darkness of night, and the lotus-flowers in the lotus-clumps,

by the side of their path, with their expanding cups and the sweet

murmur of their bees, seemed to be looking at one another and saying,

"It is a happy thing that this Bhímabhata has crossed this thicket

full of lions and other dangerous animals." So travelling on, he at

last reached with his friend the sandy shore of the Ganges, dotted

with the huts of hermits. There he drank its sweet waters, which

seemed to be impregnated with the nectar of the moon, from dwelling

on the head of Siva, and he bathed in them, and felt refreshed. And he

ate, by way of sustenance, some venison, which they had bought from a

hunter whom they happened to meet, and which Sankhadatta brought to him

roasted. And seeing that the Ganges was full and difficult to cross,

for with its waves uplifted like hands it seemed again and again to

warn him back, he proceeded to roam along the bank of the river. And

there he saw a young Bráhman in the court of an out-of-the-way hut,

engaged in the study of the Vedas. So he went up to him and said,

"Who are you, and what are you doing in this solitary place?" Then

the young Bráhman answered him:

"I am Nílakantha, the son of a Bráhman named Sríkantha, who lived

at Váránasí, and after all the ceremonies had been performed for me,

and I had learnt knowledge in the family of my spiritual preceptor,

I returned home and found all my relations dead. That left me helpless

and poor, and as I was not in a position to carry on the duties of

a householder, I became despondent, and repaired to this place, and

had recourse to severe asceticism. Then the goddess Gangá gave me some

fruits in a dream, and said to me, 'Remain here living on these fruits,

until you obtain your desire.' Then I woke up and went and bathed,

and when the morning came, I found in the water some fruits, that had

been washed here by the stream of the Ganges. I brought those fruits,

delicious as nectar, into my hut, and ate them there, and so I remain

here engaged in asceticism, receiving these fruits day by day."

When he said this, Bhímabhata said to Sankhadatta, "I will give

this virtuous youth enough wealth to enable him to enter the

householder-state." Sankhadatta approved his speech; whereupon the

prince gave the Bráhman the wealth that his mother gave him. For

what is the use of the greatness of great ones, who have abundant

courage and wealth, if they do not put a stop to the sufferings of

their neighbour as soon as they hear of them?

And after he had made the fortune of the Bráhman, Bhímabhata searched

in every direction for some means of crossing the Ganges, but could

not find any. Then he tied his ornaments and sword on his head,

and plunged in with Sankhadatta to swim across it.

And in the middle of the river the current carried his friend to a

distance from him, and he himself was swept away by the waves, and

reached the bank with difficulty. When he reached the other side,

he could not see his friend Sankhadatta, and while he was looking

for him along the bank, the sun set. Then he began to despair,

and he exclaimed in bitter grief, "Alas my friend!" and it being

now the beginning of the night, he prepared to drown himself in

the waters of the Ganges. He said, "Goddess Jáhnaví, you have taken

from me my life in the form of my friend, so now receive also this

empty vessel of my body," and he was on the point of plunging in,

when Gangá appeared to him from the middle of the flood. And pleased

with his violent agitation she said to him then and there, "Do not

act rashly, my son! your friend is alive, and in a short time you

shall be reunited with him. Now receive from me this charm called,

'Forwards and Backwards.' If a man repeats it forwards, he will

become invisible to his neighbour, but if he repeats it backwards,

he will assume whatever shape he desires. [258] Such is the force

of this charm only seven syllables long, and by its help you shall

become a king on this earth." When the goddess Gangá had said this,

and given him the charm, she disappeared from his eyes, and he gave

up the idea of suicide, now that he had got a hope of regaining

his friend and of other successes. And being anxious to regain his

friend, he passed the night in impatience, like the lotus-flower,

and the next morning he set out in search of him.

Then, as he was travelling about in search of Sankhadatta, he one

day reached alone the district of Láta, where, though the colours of

the castes are not mixed, the people lead a diversified and richly

coloured life, which though a seat of fine arts, is not reputed a home

of crimes. [259] In this city he wandered about, looking at the temples

and the dwelling-houses, and at last he reached a hall of gamblers. He

entered it and saw a number of fraudulent dice-players, who though

they were clothed in a loin-rag only, shewed by their handsome,

well-shaped, stout limbs, which indicated good living and plenty

of exercise, that they were men of rank though they concealed it,

and that they had resorted to that occupation for the sake of making

money. They began to talk to him, so he sat down to play with them,

and they fancied that they would make a fine thing out of him and

his ornaments. Then he beat them at the dice-play, and won from the

rogues all the wealth which they had acquired by cheating others.

Then those gamblers, having lost their wealth, were preparing to go

home, when Bhímabhata set his arms against the door and stopped them,

and said to them, "Where are you going? Take back this wealth; I do

not want it. I must give it away to my friends, and are not you my

friends? Where can I find [260] such dear friends as you?" When he

said this, and they declined to take the money out of shame, a gambler

there, of the name of Akshakshapanaka, said, "Undoubtedly it is the

definition of gambling that what is won is not returned, but if this

gentleman becomes our friend, and gives us of his own accord wealth

which he has fairly won, why should we not take it?" The others,

when they heard this, exclaimed, "It is fitting, if he makes such

an eternal friendship with us." When they said this, he came to the

conclusion that they were men of spirit, and he at once consented to

swear eternal friendship to them, and gave them back their wealth. And

at their request he went into a garden with them and their families,

and refreshed himself with food, and wine, and other luxuries,

supplied by them. Then, at the request of Akshakshapanaka and the

others, he told his name, race, and history, and asked them also for

theirs. Then Akshakshapanaka told him the story of his life.

Story of Akshakshapanaka.

There lived in Hastinápura a Bráhman named Sivadatta, a very rich man,

and I am his son, and my real name is Vasudatta. And in my youth I

learnt skill in arms as well as in the Vedas. Then my father made me

marry a wife from a family equal in rank to my own. But my mother was a

great scold, implacable, and very passionate. And she worried my father

so intolerably, that as soon as he saw me married, he left his home,

and went away somewhere where he could not be traced. When I saw that,

I was afraid, and I earnestly enjoined on my wife to study carefully

my mother's disposition, and she, being terrified, did so. But my

mother was bent on quarrelling, and it was impossible for my wife to

please her in any way. The ill-natured woman interpreted her silence as

contempt, her plaintive lamentation as hypocrisy, and her attempts at

explanation as wrangling. For who can deprive the fire of its tendency

to burn? Then her disagreeable behaviour in a short time worried my

wife also so much, that she left the house and fled I know not where.

Then I was so despondent that I made up my mind to abandon family

life, but my wretched relations assembled together and forced me to

take another wife. That second wife of mine also was so worried by

my mother, that she committed suicide by hanging herself. Then I was

exceedingly vexed, and I determined to go to a foreign country. And

when my relations tried to prevent me, I told them of the wickedness

of my mother. They assigned another reason for my father's leaving the

country, and would not believe my story; so I adopted the following

artifice. I had a wooden doll made, and pretended to marry it privately

as a third wife, and I brought it and placed it in another secluded

house which I locked up. And I made another female puppet to guard her,

dressed like a servant. And I said to my mother, "I have put this wife

of mine in a separate house. So you and I must for the present remain

apart from her in our own house; you must not go there and she must

not come here. For she is timid as yet, and does not know how to win

your affection." To this arrangement my mother gave her consent.

After some days had elapsed, my mother, finding that she could not

manage anyhow to get at that supposed daughter-in-law of hers,

who was in a private house kept always locked, took a stone one

day and struck herself on the head, and remained in the courtyard

in front of her own house, streaming with blood, and lamenting with

loud cries. Then I and all my relations came in, hearing the cries,

and when we saw her, we said, "Tell us, what is the matter?" When

we asked her this question, she said spitefully, "My daughter-in-law

came without any reason and reduced me to this state; so now my only

remedy is death." When my relations heard this, they were furious, and

they took her and me with them to the house where I kept the wooden

doll. They removed the fastening, and opened the door, and went in,

and lo! they saw nothing there but a wooden doll. Then they laughed

at my mother, who was covered with shame, having imposed on no one

but herself, and they began to repose confidence in what I had said,

and so they went away again.

And I left that country, and travelled about till I came to this

region, and here I happened to enter a gambling-hall. And there I

saw these five men playing, this man named Chandabhujanga, and that

Pásupata, and this Smasánavetála, and that Kálavarátaka, and this

Sáriprastara, heroes equal in valour. And I gambled with them on this

mutual understanding, that whoever was conquered should be the slave

of the conqueror. Then they became my slaves by being beaten by me

in gambling, but I have become their slave by being won over by their

good qualities. And dwelling with them I have forgotten my woes.

So know that here I bear the name of Akshakshapana, [261] a name

suited to my condition. Here I have lived with these excellent men of

good family, who conceal their real position, and now you have joined

us. So now you are our chief, and it was with this view that we took

that money of yours originally, being charmed with your virtues.

When Akshakshapana had told his story in these words, all the others in

succession also told their adventures. And prince Bhímabhata perceived

that his friends were heroes, who had disguised their real character

by taking up gambling practices for the sake of gaining wealth, so he

had much more pleasant chat with them, and spent the day in amusement,

and then seeing that the eastern quarter had adorned its face with the

rising moon, as with an ornamental patch, he went from that garden

with Akshakshapanaka and the other six to their dwelling. And while

he was there with them, the rainy season arrived, seeming to announce

with the roarings of its joyous clouds his recovery of his friend. And

then the impetuous river there, named Vipásá, that flowed into the sea,

was filled with an influx of sea-water and began to flow backwards,

and it deluged that shore with a great inundation, and then owing

to the cessation of that influx, [262] it seemed to flow on again to

the sea. Now at that time the sudden influx of sea-water brought in

a great fish, and on account of its unwieldy size it was stranded

on the bank of the river. And the inhabitants, when they saw the

fish stranded, ran forward with all kinds of weapons to kill it,

and ripped open its stomach. And when its stomach was cut open, there

came out of it alive a young Bráhman; and the people, astonished at

that strange sight, raised a shout. [263] When Bhímabhata heard that,

he went there with his friends, and saw his friend Sankhadatta, who

had just issued from the inside of the fish. So he ran and embraced

him, and bedewed him with copious tears, as if he wished to wash off

the evil smell he had contracted by living in the gulf of the fish's

maw. [264] Sankhadatta, for his part, having escaped that calamity,

and having found and embraced his friend, went from joy to joy. Then

being questioned out of curiosity by Bhímabhata, he gave this brief

account of his adventures.

"On that occasion, when I was swept out of your sight by the force

of the waves of the Ganges, I was suddenly swallowed by a very large

fish. Then I remained for a long time inside the capacious habitation

of his stomach, eating in my hunger his flesh, which I cut off with

a knife. To-day Providence somehow or other brought this fish here,

and threw it up upon the bank, so that it was killed by these men and

I was taken out of its stomach. I have seen again you and the light

of the sun, the horizon has been once more illuminated for me. This,

my friend, is the story of my adventures, I know no more than this."

When Sankhadatta said this, Bhímabhata and all that were present

exclaimed in astonishment, "To think that he should have been swallowed

in the Ganges by a fish, and that that fish should have got into the

sea, and then that from the sea it should have been brought into the

Vipásá, and that it should have been killed, and then that Sankhadatta

should have come out of it alive. Ah! the way of fate is inscrutable,

and wonderful are its works!" While uttering such remarks with

Akshakshapanaka and the others, Bhímabhata took Sankhadatta to his

own dwelling. And there in high delight he entertained with a bath,

clothes, and other needful things, his friend, who had, as it were,

been born a second time with the same body from the belly of a fish.

And while Bhímabhata was living with him in that country, there

came on there a festive procession in honour of Vásuki the king of

the snakes. In order to see it, the prince went, surrounded with his

friends, to the temple of that chief of the snakes, where great crowds

were assembling. He worshipped there in the temple, where his idol was,

which was full of long wreaths [265] of flowers in form like serpents,

and which therefore resembled the abyss of Pátála, and then going

in a southerly direction, he beheld a great lake sacred to Vásuki,

studded with red lotuses, resembling the concentrated gleams of

the brilliance of the jewels on snakes' crests; [266] and encircled

with blue lotuses, which seemed like clouds of smoke from the fire

of snake-poison; overhung with trees, that seemed to be worshipping

with their flowers blown down by the wind. When he saw it, he said to

himself in astonishment, "Compared with this expanded lake, that sea

from which Vishnu carried off the goddess of Fortune, seems to me to

be only worthy of neglect, for its fortune of beauty is not to be taken

from it by anything else." [267] In the meanwhile he saw a maiden, who

had come there to bathe, by name Hansávalí, the beautiful daughter of

Chandráditya, king of Láta, by Kuvalayavatí; her mortal nature, which

was concealed by all her other members moulded like those of gods,

was revealed by the winking of her rolling eye. She had ten million

perfections darting forth from her flower-soft body, she was with her

waist, that might be spanned with the hand, a very bow of Cupid, and

the moment she looked at Bhímabhata, she pierced him in the heart with

the sidelong arrows of her eyes, and bewildered him. [268] He too,

who was a thief of the world's beauty, entered by the oblique path

of her eyes the treasure-chamber of her heart, and robbed her of her

self-control. Then she sent secretly a trustworthy and discreet maid,

and enquired from his friends his name and residence. And after she had

bathed, she was taken back to her palace by her attendants, frequently

turning round her face to fix her eyes on him. And then Bhímabhata,

accompanied by his friends, went to his dwelling, with faltering steps,

for he was entangled with the net which his beloved had cast over him.

And immediately the princess Hansávalí sent that maid to him as an

ambassadress of love, with the message for which he longed. The maid

came up to him and said to him in secret, "Prince, the princess

Hansávalí solicits you thus, 'When you see me, who love you,

being carried away by the stream of love, you should rescue me

quickly, you should not remain indifferent upon the bank [269]'"

When Bhímabhata heard from the messenger the nectar of his beloved's

message, he was delighted at having his life saved, and said to her,

"I am in the current, I am not upon the bank; does not my beloved

know that? But now, that I have obtained some hope to cling to,

[270] I will gladly do her bidding. I will this night come and wait

upon her in her private apartments, and no one shall see me, for I

will enter concealed by a charm." When he said this to the maid,

she was pleased, and went and told it to Hansávalí, and then she

remained anxiously expecting an interview with him.

And he, in the early part of the night, went adorned with heavenly

ornaments, and making himself invisible by repeating forwards the charm

bestowed on him by Gangá, entered her splendid chamber which she had

previously cleared of attendants. In that chamber, which suggested

thoughts of love, which was perfumed with aloes, and adorned with

nose-gays of flowers of five hues [271] arranged there, and which

therefore resembled the garden of the god of love, he beheld that

lovely one exhaling heavenly fragrance, like a blossom put forth by

the creeper of the wonderful charm bestowed by Gangá. And then the

handsome prince recited the charm backwards, and immediately became

visible to that princess. When he beheld her timidly trembling with

a joyful agitation that made her hair stand on end, his ornaments

immediately tinkled like musical instruments, and he seemed to be

dancing with joy to their music. And the maiden hid her face with the

shame of love, and seemed to be asking her heart, that caused all that

display of emotion, what she was to do now. Then Bhímabhata said to

her, "Fair one, why do you allow your heart to exhibit shame, though

its feelings have been already revealed? It does not deny the state of

affairs; besides how is it possible to conceal this trembling of the

limbs and this bursting boddice?" Then Bhímabhata with such words,

and other loving persuasions, made the fair one forget her modesty,

and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage. And after he had

spent that night with her, in sporting like a bee round the lotus

of her mouth, he at last tore himself away, and saying, "I will come

again at night," returned to his house.

And when the chamberlains belonging to Hansávalí entered her chamber

the next morning, they saw that her lover had been with her. The

ends of her curls were disordered, she had marks of moist teeth and

nails, and she seemed as if the god of Love had appeared in person and

afflicted her with the wounds of all his arrows. They immediately went

and reported the matter to the king, and he secretly appointed spies to

watch at night. And Bhímabhata spent the day with his friends in their

usual employments, and in the beginning of the night again repaired

to the bower of his beloved. When the spies saw that he had entered

without being seen, by virtue of his charm, and discovered that he

possessed supernatural powers, they went out, and told the king, and

he gave them this order, "The being, who has entered a well-guarded

room without being seen, cannot be a mere man; so bring him here

that I may see what this means. And say to him politely from me,

'Why did you not openly ask me for my daughter? Why did you make

a secret of it? For it is difficult to obtain a bridegroom for my

daughter as accomplished as yourself.'" When the king had sent off

the spies with this message, they went as he commanded, and stood at

the door and delivered this message to Bhímabhata. And the resolute

prince, perceiving that the king had discovered him, answered them

boldly from inside; "Tell the king from me, that to-morrow I will

enter his hall of audience, and tell him the truth, for now it is

the dead of night." They then went and gave this message to the king

and he remained silent. And in the morning Bhímabhata went to rejoin

his friends. And putting on a magnificent costume, he went with those

seven heroes to the hall of king Chandráditya. When the king saw his

splendour, his resolute bearing and handsome appearance, he received

him kindly, and made him sit on a throne equal to his own, and then

his friend, the Bráhman Sankhadatta, said to the king, "King, this

is the son of Ugrabhata the king of Rádhá, Bhímabhata by name; his

might is irresistible on account of the wonderful power of the charm

which he possesses. And he has come here to sue for the hand of your

daughter." When the king heard that, he remembered the occurrence of

the night, and seeing that he was a suitable match for his daughter,

he exclaimed, "I am fortunate indeed," and accepted the proposal. And

after he had made splendid preparations for the marriage, he bestowed

his daughter Hansávalí on Bhímabhata with much wealth. Then Bhímabhata,

having obtained many elephants, horses, and villages, remained there in

great comfort, possessed of Hansávalí and the goddess of Fortune. And

in a few days his father-in-law gave him that kingdom of Láta, and,

being childless and old, retired to the forest. Then the successful

Bhímabhata, having obtained that kingdom, ruled it admirably with

the help of those seven heroes, Sankhadatta and the others.

Then, in the course of some days, he heard from his spies, that

his father king Ugrabhata had gone to Prayága and died there; and

that, when he was intent on death, he had anointed his youngest

son Samarabhata, the son of the dancing-girl, king of Rádhá. Then

he mourned for his father, and performed his funeral ceremonies, and

sent a messenger to that Samarabhata with a letter. And in the letter,

he sent the following message to the pretender who was treating him

unjustly, "Foolish son of a dancing-girl, what business have you to

sit on my father's throne, for it belongs to me, though I have this

kingdom of Láta; so you must not ascend it." And the messenger went,

and after announcing himself, delivered the letter to that Samarabhata,

when he was in the hall of assembly. And when Samarabhata read this

letter of such an import, under his brother's sign manual, he was

angry, and answered, "This baseless presumption is becoming in this

ill-conducted man, who was long ago banished by my father from the

country, because he was not fit to remain in it. Even the jackal apes

the lion, when he is comfortably ensconced in his native cavern,

but when he comes within view of the lion, he is discovered to be

only a jackal." Such was the answer he roared forth, and he wrote to

the same effect in a letter, and sent his return-messenger to carry

it to Bhímabhata.

So the return-messenger went, and gave, when introduced by the warder,

that letter to the king of Láta. And when Bhímabhata had read that

letter, he laughed loudly, and said to the return-messenger of his

brother--"Go, messenger, and tell that dancing-girl's son from me,

'On that former occasion when you tried to seize the horse, I saved

you from Sankhadatta, because you were a child and dear to my father,

but I will no longer endure your insolence. I will certainly send

you to my father who is so fond of you. Make ready, and know that

in a few days I shall have arrived.'" With these words he dismissed

the messenger, and then he began his expedition. When that moon of

kings, glorious in his magnificence, [272] mounted his elephant which

resembled a hill, the great sea of his army was agitated and surged up

with a roar, and the horizon was filled with innumerable feudal chiefs

and princes arrived for war, [273] and setting out with their forces;

and the earth, swiftly trampled by the elephants and horses trooping

along in great numbers, groaned and trembled under the weight, as if

afraid of being cleft open. In this fashion Bhímabhata marched and

came near Rádhá, eclipsing the light of the sun in the heavens with

the clouds of dust raised by his army.

In the meanwhile king Samarabhata heard of it, and became indignant;

and armed himself, and went out with his army to meet him in

battle. And those two armies met, like the eastern and western seas,

and a great battle took place between the heroes on both sides,

awful as the destruction of the world. Then the fire, produced by the

loud clashing of swords, which seemed as if it had been kindled by

the gnashing of the teeth of the angry god of Death, hid the sky;

and javelins flew with their long points resembling eyelashes,

and seemed like the glances of the nymphs of heaven, as they gazed

on the warriors. Then the field of battle appeared like a stage;

its canopy was dust, its music was the shouting of the army, and

its dancers palpitating trunks. And a furious [274] torrent of blood,

sweeping along heads, and garlanded with trunks, carried off all living

creatures, like the night of destruction at the end of the world.

But the archer Bhímabhata soon routed the army of his enemies,

by means of a combined attack of the mighty warriors Sankhadatta,

and Akshakshapanaka, and Chandabhujanga and his fellows, skilled

in wrestling, resembling impetuous elephants. And Samarabhata was

furious, when his army was routed, and he dashed forward on his

chariot, and began to churn the sea of battle, as Mount Mandara

churned the ocean. [275] Then Bhímabhata, who was mounted on an

elephant, attacked him, and cut his bow in two with his arrows, and

also killed all the four horses of his chariot. Then Samarabhata,

being prevented from using his chariot, ran and struck with a javelin

on the forehead the splendid elephant of Bhímabhata, and the elephant,

as soon as it was struck, fell dead on the ground. Then both of them,

being deprived of their means of conveyance, had to fight on foot. And

the two angry kings, armed with sword and shield, engaged in single

combat. But Bhímabhata, though he might have made himself invisible

by means of his charm, and so have killed him, out of a regard for

fairness, would not kill his enemy in that way. But being a skilful

swordsman, he contended against him in open fight, and cut off with

his sword the head of that son of the dancing-girl.

And when that Samarabhata was slain with his soldiers, and the

bands of the Siddhas had applauded from the heavens, and the fight

had come to an end, Bhímabhata with his friends entered the city of

Rádhá, being praised by heralds and minstrels. Then, returning from

a long absence, after slaying his enemy, he delighted his mother,

who was eager to behold him, as Ráma did Kausalyá. And the citizens

welcomed him, and then he adorned the throne of his father, and took

his seat on it, honoured by his father's ministers, who loved his

good qualities. And then he honoured all his subjects, who made high

festival; and on a lucky day he gave to Sankhadatta the kingdom of

Láta. And he sent him to the territory of Láta, escorted by a force

composed of natives of that country; and he gave villages and wealth to

Akshakshapanaka and his fellows, and he remained surrounded by them,

ruling his ancestral realm, with that queen Hansávalí, the daughter

of the king of Láta. And, in course of time, he conquered the earth,

and carried off the daughters of kings, and became exclusively addicted

to the enjoyment of their society. And he devolved his duties on his

ministers, and amused himself with the women of his harem, and never

left its precincts, being engrossed with drinking and other vices.

Then, one day, the hermit Uttanka came of his own accord to visit him,

as if he were the time of accomplishment of the previous decree of

Siva. And when the hermit came to the door, the king, being blinded

with passion, intoxication, and the pride of sovereignty, would not

listen, though the warders announced his arrival. Then the hermit

was angry, and denounced this curse on the king, "O man blinded with

intoxication, you shall fall from your throne, and become a wild

elephant." When the king heard that, fear dispelled his intoxication,

and he went out, and prostrating himself at the foot of the hermit,

began to appease him with humble words. Then the anger of the

great sage was calmed, and he said to him, "King, you must become

an elephant, that decree cannot be altered; but when you shall have

relieved a minister of Mrigánkadatta's, named Prachandasakti, afflicted

with the curse of a Nága and blinded, who shall become your guest,

and shall tell him your story, you shall be delivered from this curse;

and you shall return to the state of a Gandharva, as Siva foretold

to you, and then that guest of yours shall recover the use of his

eyes." When the hermit Uttanka had said this, he returned as he came,

and Bhímabhata was hurled from his throne, and became an elephant.

"So know, my friend, that I am that very Bhímabhata, become an

elephant, and you are Prachandasakti; I know that my curse is now

at an end." When Bhímabhata had said this, he abandoned the form of

an elephant, and at once became a Gandharva of heavenly might. And

immediately Prachandasakti recovered, to his intense delight, the use

of his eyes, and looked upon that Gandharva there. And in the meanwhile

the discreet Mrigánkadatta, who had heard their conversation from

the bower of creepers, with his other ministers, having discovered

that it was indeed his friend, rushed quickly and impetuously forth,

and threw his arms round the neck of his minister Prachandasakti. And

Prachandasakti looked at him, and feeling as if his body had been

irrigated with a sudden flood of nectar, immediately embraced the

feet of his lord.

Then the Gandharva Bhímabhata comforted those two, who were weeping,

both deeply moved at being reunited after so long a separation. And

Mrigánkadatta, bowing, said to that Gandharva, "That I have recovered

this friend of mine, and that he has recovered his eyesight, is

all due to your wondrous might. Honour to you!" When the Gandharva

heard that, he said to that prince, "You shall soon recover all your

other ministers, and obtain Sasánkavatí as a wife, and become king

of the whole earth. So you must not lose heart. Now, auspicious one,

I depart, but I will appear to you when you think of me."

When the matchless chief of the Gandharvas had said this to the prince,

and so testified his friendship for him, as his curse was at an end,

and he had obtained prosperous felicity, he flew up swiftly into the

sky, making the whole air resound with the tinkling of his beautiful

bracelet and necklace.

And Mrigánkadatta, having recovered Prachandasakti, and so regained

his spirits, spent that day in the wood, accompanied by his ministers.

CHAPTER LXXV.

Victory to Ganesa, who, when dancing, makes a shower of stars,

resembling a rain of flowers, fall from the sky, by a blow of his

trunk!

Then Mrigánkadatta, having passed that night, set out in the morning

from that wood, together with Prachandasakti and his other affectionate

ministers, making for Ujjayiní in order to gain Sasánkavatí, and

looking out for the rest of his ministers.

And as he was going along on his way, he saw his minister

Vikramakesarin being carried through the air by a hideously deformed

man. And while he was eagerly pointing him out to his other ministers,

that minister alighted from the air near him. And quickly dismounting

from the shoulder of that man, he came up and embraced the feet

of Mrigánkadatta, with his eyes full of tears. And the delighted

Mrigánkadatta embraced him in return, and so did his ministers, one

after another, and then Vikramakesarin dismissed that man, saying,

"Come to me, when I think of you." Then Mrigánkadatta out of curiosity

asked Vikramakesarin for the story of his adventures, and he sat down

in the forest and related them.

The adventures of Vikramakesarin.

When I had been separated from you on that occasion by the curse of the

Nága, and had wandered about for many days in search of you, I said to

myself, "I will make for Ujjayiní, for they will go there quickly,"

and having formed this intention, I set out for that city. And in

course of time I reached a village near it, named Brahmasthala, and

there I sat down on the bank of a lake at the foot of a tree. There

an old Bráhman, afflicted with the bite of a serpent, came up to

me and said, "Rise up from this place, my son, lest you incur my

fate. For there is a great serpent here, and I am so tortured by the

bite which he has given me, that I am now about to drown myself in

this lake." When he said this, I dissuaded him, out of compassion,

from committing suicide, and I then and there counteracted the effect

of the poison by my knowledge of antidotes.

Then the Bráhman eagerly, but with due politeness, asked me the whole

story of my life, and when he knew the facts, said to me kindly, "You

have to-day saved my life, so receive, hero, this charm for mastering

Vetálas, which I inherited from my father. For it is suitable to you

who possess all powers, but what, I pray, could a feeble creature,

like me, do with it?" When I heard that, I answered that noble

Bráhman, "What use can I make of Vetálas, now that I am separated from

Mrigánkadatta?" When the Bráhman heard that, he laughed, and went on

to say to me, "Do you not know that you can obtain from a Vetála all

that you desire? Did not king Trivikramasena obtain of old time the

sovereignty of the Vidyádharas by the favour of a Vetála? Listen now,

I will tell you his story in proof of it."

Here begins the 1st of the 25 tales of a Demon. [276]

(Vetála-Panchavinsatiká.)

On the banks of the Godávarí there is a place named Pratishthána. In

it there lived of old time a famous king, named Trivikramasena, the

son of Vikramasena, equal to Indra in might. Every day, when he was in

his hall of audience, a mendicant named Kshántisíla came to him, to

pay him his respects, and presented him with a fruit. And every day,

the king as soon as he received the fruit, gave it into the hand of

the superintendent of his treasury who was near him. In this way ten

years passed, but one day, when the mendicant had left the hall of

audience, after giving the fruit to the king, the king gave it to a

young pet monkey, that had escaped from the hands of its keepers, and

happened to enter there. While the monkey was eating that fruit, it

burst open, and there came out of it a splendid priceless jewel. When

the king saw that, he took up the jewel, and asked the treasurer the

following question, "Where have you put all those fruits which I have

been in the habit of handing over to you, after they were given to

me by the mendicant?" When the superintendent of the treasury heard

that, he was full of fear, and he said to the king, "I used to throw

them into the treasury from the window without opening the door; if

your Majesty orders me, I will open it and look for them." When the

treasurer said this, the king gave him leave to do so, and he went

away, and soon returned, and said to the king, "I see that those

fruits have all rotted away in the treasury, and I also see that

there is a heap of jewels there resplendent with radiant gleams."

When the king heard it, he was pleased, and gave those jewels

to the treasurer, and the next day he said to the mendicant, who

came as before, "Mendicant, why do you court me every day with great

expenditure of wealth? I will not take your fruit to-day until you tell

me." When the king said this, the mendicant said to him in private,

"I have an incantation to perform which requires the aid of a brave

man, I request, hero, that you will assist me in it." When the king

heard that, he consented and promised him that he would do so. Then the

mendicant was pleased and he went on to say to that king, "Then I shall

be waiting for you at night-fall in the approaching black fortnight,

in the great cemetery here, under the shade of a banyan-tree, and

you must come to me there. The king said--"Well! I will do so." And

the mendicant Kshántisíla returned delighted to his own dwelling.

Then the heroic monarch, as soon as he had got into the black

fortnight, remembered the request of the mendicant, which he

had promised to accomplish for him, and as soon as night came, he

enveloped his head in a black cloth, and left the palace unperceived,

sword in hand, and went fearlessly to the cemetery. It was obscured

by a dense and terrible pall of darkness, and its aspect was rendered

awful by the ghastly flames from the burning of the funeral pyres,

and it produced horror by the bones, skeletons, and skulls of men that

appeared in it. In it were present formidable Bhútas and Vetálas,

joyfully engaged in their horrible activity, and it was alive with

the loud yells of jackals, [277] so that it seemed like a second

mysterious tremendous form of Bhairava. And after he had searched

about in it, he found that mendicant under a banyan-tree, engaged in

making a circle, and he went up to him and said, "Here I am arrived,

mendicant; tell me, what can I do for you?"

When the mendicant heard that, and saw the king, he was delighted,

and said to him--"King, if I have found favour in your eyes, go

alone a long way from here towards the south, and you will find an

sinsapá-tree. [278] On it there is a dead man hanging up; go and bring

him here; assist me in this matter, hero." As soon as the brave king,

who was faithful to his promise, heard this, he said, "I will do so,"

and went towards the south. And after he had gone some way in that

direction, along a path revealed by the light of the flaming pyres,

he reached with difficulty in the darkness that asoka-tree; the tree

was scorched with the smoke of funeral pyres, and smelt of raw flesh,

and looked like a Bhúta, and he saw the corpse hanging on its trunk,

as it were on the shoulder of a demon. So he climbed up, and cutting

the string which held it, flung it to the ground. And the moment it

was flung down, it cried out, as if in pain. Then the king, supposing

it was alive, came down and rubbed its body out of compassion;

that made the corpse utter a loud demoniac laugh. Then the king

knew that it was possessed by a Vetála, and said without flinching,

"Why do you laugh? Come, let us go off." And immediately he missed

from the ground the corpse possessed by the Vetála, and perceived

that it was once more suspended on that very tree. Then he climbed

up again and brought it down, for the heart of heroes is a gem more

impenetrable than adamant. Then king Trivikramasena threw the corpse

possessed by a Vetála over his shoulder, and proceeded to go off with

it, in silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála in the corpse

that was on his shoulder said to him, "King, I will tell you a story

to beguile the way, listen."

Story of the prince, who was helped to a wife by the son of his

father's minister. [279]

There is a city named Váránasí, which is the dwelling-place of

Siva, inhabited by holy beings, and thus resembles the plateau of

mount Kailása. The river Ganges, ever full of water, flows near it,

and appears as if it were the necklace ever resting on its neck;

in that city there lived of old time a king named Pratápamukuta,

who consumed the families of his enemies with his valour, as the

fire consumes the forest. He had a son named Vajramukuta, who dashed

the god of love's pride in his beauty, and his enemies' confidence

in their valour. And that prince had a friend, named Buddhisaríra,

whom he valued more than his life, the sagacious son of a minister.

Once on a time that prince was amusing himself with that friend, and

his excessive devotion to the chase made him travel a long distance. As

he was cutting off the long-maned [280] heads of lions with his arrows,

as it were the chowries that represented the glory of their valour,

he entered a great forest. It seemed like the chosen home of love,

with singing cuckoos for bards, fanned by trees with their clusters of

blossoms, waving like chowries. In it he and the minister's son saw

a great lake, looking like a second sea, the birthplace of lotuses

[281] of various colours; and in that pool of gods there was seen

by him a maiden of heavenly appearance, who had come there with her

attendants to bathe. She seemed to fill the splendid tank with the

flood of her beauty, and with her glances to create in it a new forest

of blue lotuses. With her face, that surpassed the moon in beauty, she

seemed to put to shame the white lotuses, and she at once captivated

with it the heart of that prince. The youth too, in the same way, took

with a glance such complete possession of her eyes, that she did not

regard her own modesty or even her ornaments. And as he was looking

at her with his attendants, and wondering who she was, she made,

under pretence of pastime, a sign to tell him her country and other

particulars about her. She took a lotus from her garland of flowers,

and put it in her ear, and she remained for a long time twisting it

into the form of an ornament called dantapatra or tooth-leaf, and then

she took another lotus and placed it on her head, and she laid her

hand significantly upon her heart. The prince did not at that time

understand those signs, but his sagacious friend the minister's son

did understand them. The maiden soon departed, being led away from

that place by her attendants, and when she had reached her own house,

she flung herself down on a sofa, but her heart remained with that

prince, to justify the sign she had made.

The prince, for his part, when without her, was like a Vidyádhara

who has lost his magic knowledge, and, returning to his own city,

he fell into a miserable condition. And one day the minister's son

questioned him in private, speaking of that beauty as easy to obtain,

whereupon he lost his self-command and exclaimed, "How is she to be

obtained, when neither her name, nor her village, nor her origin is

known? So why do you offer me false comfort?" When the prince said

this to the minister's son, he answered, "What! did you not see,

what she told you by her signs? By placing the lotus in her ear,

she meant to say this, 'I live in the realm of king Karnotpala.' By

making it into the tooth-leaf ornament she meant to say, 'Know that

I am the daughter of a dentist [282] there.' By lifting up the lotus

she let you know her name was Padmávatí; and by placing her hand on

her heart she told you that it was yours. Now there is a king named

Karnotpala in the country of Kalinga; he has a favourite courtier,

a great dentist named Sangrámavardhana, and he has a daughter named

Padmávatí, the pearl of the three worlds, whom he values more than

his life. All this I knew from the talk of the people, and so I

understood her signs, which were meant to tell her country and the

other particulars about her. [283]

When that prince had been told all this by the minister's son, he was

pleased with that intelligent man, and rejoiced, as he had now got an

opportunity of attaining his object, and, after he had deliberated

with him, he set out with him from his palace on the pretence of

hunting, but really in search of his beloved, and went again in that

direction. And on the way he managed to give his retinue the slip by

the speed of his swift horse, and he went to the country of Kalinga

accompanied by the minister's son only. There they reached the city

of king Karnotpala, and searched for and found the palace of that

dentist, and the prince and the minister's son entered the house of

an old woman, who lived near there, to lodge. The minister's son gave

their horses water and fodder, and placed them there in concealment,

and then said to that old woman in the presence of the prince,

"Do you know, mother, a dentist named Sangrámavardhana?" When the

old woman heard that, she said to him courteously, "I know him well;

I was his nurse, and he has now made me attend upon his daughter as

a duenna; but I never go there at present, as I have been deprived

of my clothes, for my wicked son, who is a gambler, takes away my

clothes as soon as he sees them." When the minister's son heard this,

he was delighted, and he gratified the old woman with the gift of

his upper garment and other presents, and went on to say to her,

"You are a mother to us, so do what we request you to do in secret;

go to that Padmávatí, the daughter of the dentist, and say to her,

'The prince, whom you saw at the lake, has come here, and out of

love he has sent me to tell you.'" When the old woman heard this,

she consented, being won over by the presents, and went to Padmávatí,

and came back in a moment. And when the prince and the minister's

son questioned her, she said to them, "I went and told her secretly

that you had come. When she heard that, she scolded me, and struck

me on both cheeks with her two hands smeared with camphor. So I have

come back weeping, distressed at the insult. See here, my children,

these marks of her fingers on my face."

When she said this, the prince was despondent, as he despaired of

attaining his object, but the sagacious minister's son said to him in

private, "Do not despond, for by keeping her own counsel and scolding

the old woman, and striking her on the face with her ten fingers

white with camphor, she meant to say, 'Wait for these remaining ten

moonlight nights of the white fortnight, for they are unfavourable

to an interview.'"

After the minister's son had comforted the prince with these words,

he went and sold secretly in the market some gold, which he had about

him, and made that old woman prepare a splendid meal, and then those

two ate it with that old woman. After the minister's son had spent

ten days in this fashion, he again sent the old woman to Padmávatí, to

see how matters stood. And she, being fond of delicious food, liquor,

and other enjoyments of the kind, went again to the dwelling-house

of Padmávatí, to please her guests, and returned and said to them,

"I went there to-day and remained silent, but she of her own accord

taunted me with that crime of having brought your message, and again

struck me here on the breast with three fingers dipped in red dye, so I

have returned here thus marked by her." When the minister's son heard

this, he said, of his own accord, to the prince, "Do not entertain

any despondent notions, for by placing the impression of her three

fingers marked with red dye on this woman's heart, she meant to say;

'I cannot receive you for three nights.'"

When the minister's son had said this to the prince, he waited till

three days had passed, and again sent the old woman to Padmávatí. She

went to her palace, and Padmávatí honoured her and gave her food, and

lovingly entertained her that day with wine and other enjoyments. And

in the evening, when the old woman wished to go back to her house,

there arose outside a terrible tumult. Then the people were heard

exclaiming, "Alas! Alas! a mad elephant has escaped from the post to

which he was tied, and is rushing about, trampling men to death." Then

Padmávatí said to that old woman, "You must not go by the public road,

which is rendered unsafe by the elephant, so we will put you on a seat,

with a rope fastened to it to support it, and let you down by this

broad window here into the garden of the house, there you must get up

a tree and cross this wall, and then let yourself down by another tree

and go to your own house." After she had said this, she had the old

woman let down from the window by her maid into the garden, by means

of that seat with a rope fastened to it. She went by the way pointed

out to her, and related the whole story, exactly as it happened, to

the prince and the minister's son. Then the minister's son said to

the prince, "Your desire is accomplished, for she has shewn you by an

artifice the way you should take; so go there this very day, as soon

as evening sets in, and by this way enter the palace of your beloved."

When the minister's son said this, the prince went with him into the

garden, by the way over the wall pointed out by the old woman. There

he saw that rope hanging down with the seat, and at the top of it

were some maids, who seemed to be looking out for his arrival. So

he got on to the seat, and the moment those female servants saw him,

they pulled him up with the rope, and he entered the presence of his

beloved through the window. When he had entered, the minister's son

returned to his lodging. And when the prince entered, he beheld that

Padmávatí with a face like a full moon, shedding forth beauty like

beams, like the night of the full moon remaining concealed through fear

of the black fortnight. As soon as she saw him, she rose up boldly,

and welcomed him with affectionate embraces and other endearments

natural in one who had waited for him so long. Then the prince married

that fair one by the Gándharva form of marriage, and all his wishes

being now fulfilled, remained with her in concealment.

And after he had lived with her some days, he said to her one night,

"My friend the minister's son came with me and is staying here, and he

is now left alone in the house of your duenna; I must go and pay him

a visit, fair one, and then I will return to you." When the cunning

Padmávatí heard that, she said to her lover, "Come now, my husband,

I have a question to ask you; did you guess the meaning of those

signs which I made, or was it that friend of yours the minister's

son?" When she said this, the prince said to her, "I did not guess

anything at all, but that friend of mine, the minister's son, who is

distinguished for superhuman insight, guessed it all, and told it to

me." When the fair one heard this, she reflected, and said to him,

"Then you have acted wrongly in not telling me about him before. Since

he is your friend, he is my brother, and I must always honour him

before all others with gifts of betel and other luxuries." When she

had dismissed him with these words, the prince left the palace at

night by the way by which he came, and returned to his friend. And

in the course of conversation he told him, that he had told his

beloved how he guessed the meaning of the signs which she made. But

the minister's son did not approve of this proceeding on his part,

considering it imprudent. And so the day dawned on them conversing.

Then, as they were again talking together after the termination of

the morning prayer, the confidante of Padmávatí came in with betel and

cooked food in her hand. She asked after the health of the minister's

son, and after giving him the dainties, in order by an artifice to

prevent the prince from eating any of them, she said, in the course of

conversation, that her mistress was awaiting his arrival to feast and

spend the day with her, and immediately she departed unobserved. Then

the minister's son said to the prince; "Now observe, prince, I will

shew you something wonderful." Thereupon he gave that cooked food to

a dog to eat, and the dog, as soon as he had eaten it, fell dead upon

the spot. When the prince saw that, he said to the minister's son,

"What is the meaning of this marvel?" And he answered him, "The truth

is that the lady has found out that I am intelligent, by the fact

that I guessed the meaning of her signs, and so she has sent me this

poisoned food in order to kill me, for she is deeply in love with you,

and thinks that you, prince, will never be exclusively devoted to her

while I am alive, but being under my influence, will perhaps leave her,

and go to your own city. So give up the idea of being angry with her,

persuade the high-spirited woman to leave her relations, and I will

invent and tell you an artifice for carrying her off."

When the minister's son had said this, the prince said to him, "You

are rightly named Buddhisaríra as being an incarnation of wisdom;"

and at the very moment that he was thus praising him, there was

suddenly heard outside a general cry from the sorrowing multitude,

"Alas! Alas! the king's infant son is dead." The minister's son was

much delighted at hearing this, and he said to the prince, "Repair now

to Padmávatí's palace at night, and there make her drink so much, that

she shall be senseless and motionless with intoxication, and apparently

dead. And when she is asleep, make a mark on her hip with a red hot

iron spike, and take away all her ornaments, and return by letting

yourself down from the window by a rope; and after that I will take

steps to make everything turn out prosperously." When the minister's

son had said this, he had a three-pronged spike made, with points like

the bristles of a boar, and gave it to the prince. And the prince took

in his hand that weapon which resembled the crooked hard hearts of his

beloved and of his friend, which were firm as black iron; and saying,

"I will do as you direct," went at night to the palace of Padmávatí

as before, for princes should never hesitate about following the

advice of an excellent minister. There he made his beloved helpless

with drink, and marked her on the hip with the spike, and took away

her ornaments, and then he returned to that friend of his. And he

shewed him the ornaments, and told him what he had done. Then the

minister's son considered his design as good as accomplished.

And the next morning the minister's son went to the cemetery, and

promptly disguised himself as an ascetic, and he made the prince assume

the guise of a disciple. And he said to him, "Go and take the pearl

necklace which is part of this set of ornaments, and pretend to try

to sell it in the market, but put a high price on it, that no one may

be willing to buy it, and that every one may see it being carried

about, and if the police here should arrest you, say intrepidly,

'My spiritual preceptor gave it me to sell.'"

When the minister's son had sent off the prince on this errand, he

went and wandered about in the market-place, publicly showing the

necklace. And while he was thus engaged, he was seen and arrested

by the police, who were on the lookout for thieves, as information

had been given about the robbery of the dentist's daughter. And they

immediately took him to the chief magistrate of the town; and he,

seeing that he was dressed as an ascetic, said to him courteously,

"Reverend sir, where did you get this necklace of pearls which was

lost in this city, for the ornaments of the dentist's daughter were

stolen during the night?" When the prince, who was disguised as an

ascetic, heard this, he said, "My spiritual preceptor gave it me;

come and question him." Then the magistrate of the city came to the

minister's son, and bowed, and said to him, "Reverend sir, where

did you get this pearl necklace that is in the possession of your

pupil?" When the cunning fellow heard that, he took him aside and said,

"I am an ascetic, in the habit of wandering perpetually backwards and

forwards in the forests. As chance would have it, I arrived here, and

as I was in the cemetery at night, I saw a band of witches collected

from different quarters. And one of them brought the prince, with the

lotus of his heart laid bare, and offered him to Bhairava. And the

witch, who possessed great powers of delusion, being drunk, tried to

take away my rosary, while I was reciting my prayers, making horrible

contortions with her face. And as she carried the attempt too far, I

got angry, and heating with a charm the prongs of my trident, I marked

her on the loins. And then I took this necklace from her neck. And

now I must sell this necklace, as it does not suit an ascetic."

When the magistrate heard this, he went and informed the king. When the

king heard it, he concluded that that was the pearl necklace which had

been lost, and he sent a trustworthy old woman to see if the dentist's

daughter was really marked with a trident on the loins. The old woman

came back and said that the mark could be clearly seen. Then the king

made up his mind that she was a witch, and had really destroyed his

child. So he went in person to that minister's son, who was personating

an ascetic, and asked him how he ought to punish Padmávatí; and by

his advice he ordered her to be banished from the city, though her

parents lamented over her. And when she was banished, and was left

in the forest, though naked, she did not abandon the body, supposing

that it was all an artifice devised by the minister's son. And in

the evening the minister's son and the prince, who had abandoned the

dress of ascetics, and were mounted on their horses, came upon her

lamenting. And they consoled her, and mounted her upon a horse, and

took her to their own kingdom. There the prince lived happily with

her. But the dentist, supposing that his daughter had been devoured

by wild beasts in the forest, died of grief, and his wife followed him.

When the Vetála had said this, he went on to say to the king, "Now I

have a doubt about this story, resolve it for me; Was the minister's

son guilty of the death of this married couple, or the prince, or

Padmávatí? Tell me, for you are the chief of sages. And if, king,

you do not tell me the truth, though you know it, this head of yours

shall certainly split in a hundred pieces."

When the Vetála said this, the king, who discerned the truth, out

of fear of being cursed, gave him this answer--"O thou skilled in

magic arts, what difficulty is there about it? Why, none of the

three was in fault, but the whole of the guilt attaches to king

Karnotpala." The Vetála then said, "Why, what did the king do? Those

three were instrumental in the matter. Are the crows in fault when

the swans eat the rice?" Then the king said, "Indeed no one of

the three was in fault, for the minister's son committed no crime,

as he was forwarding his master's interests, and Padmávatí and the

prince, being burnt with the fire of the arrows of the god of Love,

and being therefore undiscerning and ignorant, were not to blame,

as they were intent on their own object. But the king Karnotpala, as

being untaught in treatises of policy, and not investigating by means

of spies the true state of affairs even among his own subjects, and not

comprehending the tricks of rogues, and inexperienced in interpreting

gestures and other external indications, is to be considered guilty,

on account of the indiscreet step which he took."

When the Vetála, who was in the corpse, heard this, as the king by

giving this correct answer had broken his silence, he immediately

left his shoulder, and went somewhere unobserved by the force of his

magic power, in order to test his persistence; and the intrepid king

at once determined to recover him.

NOTE.

An account of the various forms of the introduction to the XXV Tales

of a Demon will be found in Oesterley's German translation of the

Baitál Pachísí. The Hindi version contains the well-known story of

Theodosius the younger and his wife Athenais or Eudokia. The Mongolian

form differs widely from that in our text. Seven brothers, sorcerers,

live in India; a mile from them live two Khan's sons; the elder

of these studies magic under the seven enchanters for seven years,

but learns nothing; the younger acquires their art in a moment, and

both return to their palace. The younger turns himself into a horse,

which the elder by his order sells to the seven enchanters. These

try to kill the horse, but the Khan's son then turns himself into a

fish, which the enchanters pursue in the form of seven sea-gulls,

then into a dove, which they pursue as seven hawks, then he takes

refuge with Nágárjuna, becoming the chief bead in his rosary, and

asks him to put this bead in his mouth and to strew the rest on

the ground. The beads then become worms which the sorcerers pick

up in the form of hens. The Khan's son changes himself into a man,

and kills the hens with a stick, when lo! seven human corpses are

seen lying on the ground. As a penance for this crime the Khan's

son is sent to fetch the Siddhi-kür, which he fastens up in a bag,

and which behaves in much the same way as the Vetála does in our text.

It is remarkable that there are no questions addressed by the

Siddhi-kür to his captor. At the end of every story the Khan's son

utters an involuntary, often meaningless exclamation, of which the

Siddhi-kür takes advantage. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 174

and 175.)

Oesterley refers to an Arabian form of the 1st story in Scott's Tales,

Anecdotes and Letters, 1800, p. 108. A painter falls in love with the

picture of a beauty, and finds that the original is in the possession

of a certain minister. He penetrates in disguise into the minister's

harem, wounds his beloved in the hand and takes away her veil. He then

goes in the disguise of a pilgrim to the king, and says that he has

seen six witches, and that he has wounded one of them, who left her

veil behind her. The veil is recognized, the owner produced, convicted

by her veil, and as a witch flung into a chasm. There the painter

finds her, rescues her and carries her off. See also the 1001 Nights,

Breslau, 1, p. 245 (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 182 and 183).

CHAPTER LXXVI.

(Vetála 2.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree to fetch the

Vetála. And when he arrived there, and looked about in the darkness by

the help of the light of the funeral pyres, he saw the corpse lying on

the ground groaning. Then the king took the corpse, with the Vetála in

it, on his shoulder, and set out quickly and in silence to carry it to

the appointed place. Then the Vetála again said to the king from his

shoulder, "King, this trouble, into which you have fallen, is great

and unsuitable to you; so I will tell you a tale to amuse you, listen."

Story of the three young Bráhmans who restored a dead lady to life.

There is, on the banks of the river Yamuná, a district assigned to

Bráhmans, named Brahmasthala. In it there lived a Bráhman, named

Agnisvámin, who had completely mastered the Vedas. To him there

was born a very beautiful daughter named Mandáravatí. Indeed,

when Providence had created this maiden of novel and priceless

beauty, he was disgusted with the nymphs of Heaven, his own previous

handiwork. And when she grew up, there came there from Kányakubja three

young Bráhmans, equally matched in all accomplishments. And each one

of these demanded the maiden from her father for himself, and would

sooner sacrifice his life than allow her to be given to another. But

her father would not give her to any one of them, being afraid that,

if he did so, he would cause the death of the others; so the damsel

remained unmarried. And those three remained there day and night,

with their eyes exclusively fixed on the moon of her countenance, as

if they had taken upon themselves a vow to imitate the partridge. [284]

Then the maiden Mandáravatí suddenly contracted a burning fever,

which ended in her death. Then the young Bráhmans, distracted with

grief, carried her when dead, after she had been duly adorned, to the

cemetery, and burnt her. And one of them built a hut there and made

her ashes his bed, and remained there living on the alms he could get

by begging. And the second took her bones and went with them to the

Ganges, and the third became an ascetic and went travelling through

foreign lands.

As the ascetic was roaming about, he reached a village named

Vajraloka. And there he entered as a guest the house of a certain

Bráhman. And the Bráhman received him courteously. So he sat down

to eat; and in the meanwhile a child there began to cry. When, in

spite of all efforts to quiet it, it would not stop, the mistress

of the house fell into a passion, and taking it up in her arms,

threw it into the blazing fire. The moment the child was thrown in,

as its body was soft, it was reduced to ashes. When the ascetic,

who was a guest, saw this, his hair stood on end, and he exclaimed,

"Alas! Alas! I have entered the house of a Bráhman-demon. So I will

not eat food here now, for such food would be sin in a visible

material shape." When he said this, the householder said to him,

"See the power of raising the dead to life inherent in a charm of

mine, which is effectual as soon as recited." When he had said this,

he took the book containing the charm and read it, and threw on to the

ashes some dust, over which the charm had been recited. [285] That

made the boy rise up alive, exactly as he was before. Then the mind

of the Bráhman ascetic was quieted, and he was able to take his meal

there. And the master of the house put the book up on a bracket, and

after taking food, went to bed at night, and so did the ascetic. But

when the master of the house was asleep, the ascetic got up timidly,

and took the book, with the desire of restoring his beloved to life.

And he left the house with the book, and travelling day and night

at last reached the cemetery, where that beloved of his had been

burnt. And at that moment he saw the second Bráhman arrive there,

who had gone to throw her bones into the river Ganges. And having

also found the one who remained in the cemetery sleeping on her ashes,

having built a hut over them, he said to the two, "Remove this hut, in

order that by the power of a certain charm I may raise up my beloved

alive from her ashes." Having earnestly solicited them to do this,

and having overturned that hut, the Bráhman ascetic opened the book,

and read the charm. And after thus charming some dust, he threw it

on the ashes, and that made Mandáravatí rise up alive. And as she

had entered the fire, she possessed, when resuscitated, a body that

had come out of it more splendid than before, as if made of gold. [286]

When the three Bráhmans saw her resuscitated in this form, they

immediately became love-sick, and quarrelled with one another,

each desiring her for himself. And the first said, "She is my wife,

for she was won by the power of my charm." And the second said,

"She belongs to me, for she was produced by the efficacy of sacred

bathing-places." And the third said, "She is mine, for I preserved

her ashes, and resuscitated her by asceticism."

"Now king, give judgment to decide their dispute; whose wife ought

the maiden to be? If you know and do not say, your head shall fly

in pieces."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he said to him, "The one

who restored her to life by a charm, though he endured hardship, must

be considered her father, because he performed that office for her,

and not her husband; and he who carried her bones to the Ganges is

considered her son; but he, who out of love lay on her ashes, and so

remained in the cemetery embracing her and practising asceticism,

he is to be called her husband, for he acted like one in his deep

affection." [287]

When the Vetála heard this from king Trivikramasena, who had broken

silence by uttering it, he left his shoulder, and went back invisible

to his own place. But the king, who was bent on forwarding the object

of the mendicant, made up his mind to fetch him again, for men of

firm resolution do not desist from accomplishing a task they have

promised to perform, even though they lose their lives in the attempt.

NOTE.

Oesterley, in the notes to his German translation of the Baitál

Pachísí, refers to the Turkish Tútínámah in which the lady dies of

despair at the difficulty of the choice, as in the Tamul version. [In

the Hindi version she dies of snake-bite.] She is brought back to

life by a good beating. The first suitor opens the grave, the second

advises the use of the cudgel, the third carries it out.

This method of restoring people, who die suddenly, to life by a good

beating, is found in a Persian story, professing to be derived from

a book "Post nubila Phoebus," in which the physician bears the name

of Kati, and asserts that he learnt the method from an old Arab. The

story is found in Epistolæ Turcicæ et Narrationes Persicæ editæ et

Latine conversæ a Joh. Ury. Oxonii, 1771, 4o, pp. 26 and 27. This

collection, which contains not the least hint of its origin, is

particularly interesting as it contains the VIIIth story of the

Siddhikür; "The Painter and the Wood-carver." [See Sagas from the Far

East, p. 97.] The Episode of the stealing of the magic book is found,

quite separated from the context, in many MS. versions of the Gesta

Romanorum: see Appendix to Oesterley's edition. (Oesterley's Baitál

Pachísí, pp. 183-185.)

CHAPTER LXXVII.

(Vetála 3.)

Then the heroic king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree,

to fetch the Vetála. And he found him there in the corpse, and

again took him up on his shoulder, and began to return with him in

silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála, who was on his back,

said to him, "It is wonderful, king, that you are not cowed with this

going backwards and forwards at night. So I will tell you another

story to solace you, listen."

Story of the king, and the two wise birds.

There is on the earth a famous city named Pátaliputra. In it there

lived of old time a king named Vikramakesarin, whom Providence made

a storehouse of virtues as well as of jewels. And he possessed a

parrot of godlike intellect, knowing all the sástras, that had

been born in that condition owing to a curse, and its name was

Vidagdhachúdámani. And the prince married as a wife, by the advice of

the parrot, a princess of equal birth, of the royal family of Magadha,

named Chandraprabhá. That princess also possessed a similar hen-maina,

of the name of Somiká, remarkable for knowledge and discernment. And

the two, the parrot and the maina, remained there in the same cage,

assisting with their discernment their master and mistress.

One day the parrot became enamoured of the maina, and said to

her, "Marry me, fair one, as we sleep, perch, and feed in the same

cage." But the maina answered him, "I do not desire intimate union with

a male, for all males are wicked and ungrateful." The parrot retorted,

"It is not true that males are wicked, but females are wicked and

cruel-hearted." And so a dispute arose between them. The two birds then

made a bargain that, if the parrot won, he should have the maina for

wife, and if the maina won, the parrot should be her slave, and they

came before the prince to get a true judgment. The prince, who was

in his father's judgment-hall, heard the point at issue between them,

and then said to the maina, "Tell me, how are males ungrateful?" Then

the maina said, "Listen," and in order to establish her contention,

proceeded to relate this story illustrating the faults of males.

The maina's story. [288]

There is on the earth a famous city, of the name of Kámandakí. In

it there was a rich merchant, of the name of Arthadatta. And he had

a son born to him, of the name of Dhanadatta. When his father died,

the young man became dissipated. And rogues got round him, and plunged

him in the love of gambling and other vices. In truth the society

of the wicked is the root of the tree of vice. In a short time his

wealth was exhausted by dissipation, and being ashamed of his poverty,

he left his own country, to wander about in foreign lands.

And in the course of his travels, he reached a place named

Chandanapura, and desiring food, he entered the house of a certain

merchant. As fate would have it, the merchant, seeing that he was a

handsome youth, asked him his descent and other things, and finding

out that he was of good birth, entertained him, and adopted him as

a protégé. And he gave him his daughter Ratnávalí, with a dower,

and thenceforth Dhanadatta lived in his father-in-law's house.

And in the course of some days, he forgot in his present happiness

his former misery, and having acquired wealth, and longing for fresh

dissipation, he wished to go back to his own land. Then the rascal

with difficulty wrung a permission from his unwilling father-in-law,

whose daughter was his only child, and taking with him his wife,

covered with ornaments, accompanied by an old woman, set out from that

place, with a party of three in all. And in course of time he reached

a distant wood, and on the plea that there was danger of robbers,

he took those ornaments from his wife and got them into his own

possession. Alas! Observe that the heart of ungrateful males, addicted

to the hateful vices of dicing and drabbing, is as hard as a sword.

Then the villain, being determined to kill his wife, though she was

virtuous, for the sake of her wealth, threw her and the old woman into

a ravine. And after he had thrown them there, he went away. The old

woman was killed, but his wife was caught in a mass of creepers and did

not die. And she slowly climbed up out of the chasm, weeping bitterly,

supporting herself by clinging to grass and creepers, for the appointed

end of her life had not yet come. And asking her way, step by step,

she arrived, by the road by which she came, at the house of her father,

with difficulty, for her limbs were sorely bruised. When she arrived

there suddenly, in this state, her mother and father questioned her

eagerly. And the virtuous lady weeping told this tale, "We were robbed

on the way by bandits, and my husband was dragged away bound; the old

woman died, but I survived, though I fell into a ravine. Then I was

dragged out of the ravine by a certain benevolent traveller, who came

that way, and by the favour of destiny I have arrived here." When

the good Ratnávalí said this, her father and mother comforted her,

and she remained there, thinking only of her husband.

And in course of time her husband Dhanadatta, who had gone back to his

own country, and wasted that wealth in gambling, said to himself, "I

will go and fetch more wealth, begging it from my father-in-law, and I

will tell him that I have left his daughter in my house here." Thinking

thus in his heart, he set out for that house of his father-in-law,

and when he drew near, his wife beheld him from a distance, and she

ran and fell at his feet, though he was a villain. For, though a

husband is wicked, a good wife does not alter her feelings towards

him. And when he was frightened, she told him all the fictitious

story she had previously told her parents about the robbery, her

fall, and so on. Then he entered fearlessly with her the house of his

father-in-law; and his father-in-law and mother-in-law, when they saw

him, welcomed him joyfully. And his father-in-law called his friends

together, and made a great feast on the occasion, exclaiming, "It is

indeed a happy thing, that my son-in-law has been let go with life

by the robbers." Then Dhanadatta lived happily with that wife of his

Ratnávalí, enjoying the wealth of his father-in-law. But, fie! what

the cruel man did one night, though it should not be told for shame,

must still for the story's sake be related. He killed his wife when

asleep in his bosom, and took away all her ornaments, and then went

away unobserved to his own country.

"So wicked are males!" When the maina had said this, the king said

to the parrot--"Now say your say."--Then the parrot said--"King,

females are of intolerable audacity, immoral and wicked; hear a tale

in proof of it."

The parrot's story. [289]

There is a city of the name of Harshavatí, and in it there was a

leading merchant named Dharmadatta, possessed of many crores. And

that merchant had a daughter named Vasudattá, matchless in beauty,

whom he loved more than his life. And she was given to an excellent

young merchant named Samudradatta, equal to her in rank, distinguished

for wealth and youth, who was an object that the eyes of lovely women

loved to feast on, as the partridges on the rays of the moon, and

who dwelt in the city of Támraliptí which is inhabited by honourable

men. Once on a time, the merchant's daughter, while she was living

in her father's house, and her husband was in his own country,

saw at a distance a certain young and good-looking man. The fickle

woman, deluded by Mára, [290] invited him by means of a confidante,

and made him her secret paramour. And from that time forth she spent

every night with him, and her affections were fixed upon him only.

But one day the husband of her youth returned from his own land,

appearing to her parents like delight in bodily form. And on that day

of rejoicing she was adorned, but she would have nothing to say to her

husband in spite of her mother's injunctions, but when he spoke to her,

she pretended to be asleep, as her heart was fixed on another. And then

her husband, being drowsy with wine, and tired with his journey, was

overpowered by sleep. In the meanwhile, as all the people of the house,

having eaten and drunk, were fast asleep, a thief made a hole in the

wall and entered their apartment. At that very moment the merchant's

daughter rose up, without seeing the thief, and went out secretly,

having made an assignation with her lover. When the thief saw that,

his object being frustrated, he said to himself, "She has gone out in

the dead of night adorned with those very ornaments which I came here

to steal; so I will watch where she goes." When the thief had formed

this intention, he went out, and followed that merchant's daughter

Vasudattá, keeping an eye on her, but himself unobserved.

But she, with flowers and other things of the kind in her hands,

went out, accompanied by a single confidante, who was in the secret,

and entered a garden at no great distance outside the city.

And in it she saw her lover, who had come there to meet her, hanging

dead on a tree, with a halter round his neck, for the city-guards

had caught him there at night and hanged him, on the supposition

that he was a thief. Then she was distracted and beside herself, and

exclaiming, "I am ruined," she fell on the ground and lamented with

plaintive cries. Then she took down her dead paramour from the tree,

and placing him in a sitting position, she adorned him with unguents

and flowers, and though he was senseless, embraced him, with mind

blinded by passion and grief. And when in her sorrow she raised up his

mouth and kissed it, her dead paramour, being animated by a Vetála,

suddenly bit off her nose. Then she left him in confusion and agony,

but still the unfortunate woman came back once more, and looked at

him to see if he was still alive. And when she saw that the Vetála

had left his body, and that he was dead and motionless, she departed

slowly, weeping with fear and humiliation.

In the meanwhile the thief, who was hidden there, saw all, and said

to himself, "What is this that this wicked woman has done? Alas! the

mind of females is terrible and black like a dark well, unfathomable,

exceedingly deep for a fall. [291] So I wonder what she will do

now." After these reflections, the thief again followed her at a

distance, out of curiosity.

She went on and entered her own chamber, where her husband was asleep,

and cried out weeping, "Help! Help! This wicked enemy, calling himself

a husband, has cut off my nose, though I have done nothing wrong." Then

her husband, and her father, and the servants, hearing her repeated

cries, woke up, and arose in a state of excitement. Then her father,

seeing that her nose had been recently taken off, was angry, and

had her husband bound as having injured his wife. But even while he

was being bound, he remained speechless, like a dumb man, and said

nothing, for all the listeners, his father-in-law and the others,

had altogether turned against him. [292]

When the thief had seen all this, he slipped away nimbly, and

the night, which was spent in tumult, gradually passed away, and

then the merchant's son was taken by his father-in-law to the king,

together with his wife who had been deprived of her nose. And the king,

after he had been informed by them of the circumstances, ordered the

execution of the young merchant, on the ground that he had maimed his

own wife, rejecting with contempt his version of the story. Then,

as he was being led to the place of execution, with drums beating,

the thief came up to the king's officers and said to them, "You ought

not to put this man to death without cause; I know the circumstances,

take me to the king, that I may tell him the whole story." When the

thief said this, they took him to the king, and after he had received

a promise of pardon, he told him the whole history of the night from

the beginning. And he said, "If your Majesty does not believe my

words, look at once at the woman's nose, which is in the mouth of

that corpse." When the king heard that, he sent servants to look,

and finding that the statement was true, he gave orders that the

young merchant should not suffer capital punishment. But he banished

his wicked wife from the country, after cutting off her ears also,

and punished his father-in-law by confiscating all his wealth, and

being pleased with the thief, he made him chief magistrate of the city.

"So you see that females are naturally wicked and treacherous." When

the parrot had told this tale, the curse imposed on him by Indra

lost its force, and he became once more the Gandharva Chitraratha,

and assuming a celestial form, he went to heaven. And at the same

moment the maina's curse came to an end, and she became the heavenly

nymph Tilottamá, and went at once to heaven. And so their dispute

remained undecided in the judgment-hall.

When the Vetála had told this tale, he again said to the king, "So

let your Majesty decide, which are the worst, males or females. But

if you know and do not say, your head shall split in pieces."

When the king was asked this question by the Vetála, that was on

his shoulder, he said to him, "Chief of magicians, women are the

worst. For it is possible that once in a way a man may be so wicked,

but females are, as a rule, always such everywhere." When the king

said this, the Vetála disappeared, as before, from his shoulder,

and the king once more resumed the task of fetching him.

NOTE.

Oesterley tells us that in the Vetála Cadai the two stories are told

by two parrots, and the same is the case in the Turkish Tútínámah,

Rosen, 2, p. 92.

The 1st story is found in the Turkish Tútínámah. The principal

difference is that the parents of the extravagant man die after his

first crime; after he has spent his property, he begs in a cemetery,

and is there recognized by his wife; they live some time together, and

then set out to return to his house. On the way they pass the old well,

and there he murders her. There are some similar points in the 11th

story of the Siddhikür. [See Sagas from the Far East, pp. 120-125.]

The second story is found in Babington's Vetála Cadai, p. 44. The

lover receives a mortal wound, being taken for a thief, and in the

agony of death bites off the nose of the adulteress. She smears

her husband's betel-knife with the blood, and accuses him of the

murder. The city-guards clear the matter up.

The 2nd story is found in a very different form in the

Siddhikür, No. 10; in Jülg, p. 100. [See Sagas from The Far East,

pp. 115-119.] Here a younger brother is not invited to supper by an

elder, so he determines to rob him out of revenge. He observes his

brother's wife go to a cemetery to see her dead lover, who, when she

tries to feed him by force, bites off her nose and the tip of her

tongue. Of course when she accuses her husband, the younger brother

reveals the secret.

The story in the Turkish Tútínámah, Rosen, 2, p. 96, Wickerhauser,

p. 212, closely resembles Somadeva's. The lovers are surprised by the

city-guards, who crucify the man, and let the woman go. The man in

the agony of death bites her nose off, and she accuses her husband

of the deed; he is then condemned to lose his nose. But a thief,

who has crept into the house, and has then followed the adulteress,

reveals the secret, and the woman is thereupon drowned. The story

in the Panchatantra, Benfey, II, p. 40, only resembles this in its

conclusion. [See Johnson's Hitopadesa, p. 85.] It is no doubt a clever

adaptation of the end of this story. The tale has been traced through

all its migrations by Benfey, Vol. I, p. 140. (Oesterley's Baitál

Pachísí, pp. 187-191.)

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

(Vetála 4.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went at night to that asoka-tree in the

cemetery: and he fearlessly took that Vetála that was in the corpse,

though it uttered a horrible laugh, and placed it on his shoulder,

and set out in silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála, that

was on his shoulder, said to him again, "King, why do you take all

this trouble for the sake of this wicked mendicant? In truth you show

no discrimination in taking all this fruitless labour. So hear from

me this story to amuse you on the way."

Story of Víravara.

There is a city on the earth rightly named Sobhávatí. In it there lived

a king of great valour, called Súdraka. The fire of that victorious

king's might was perpetually fanned by the wind of the chowries waved

by the captured wives of his enemies. I ween that the earth was so

glorious during the reign of that king, owing to the uninterrupted

practice of righteousness that prevailed, that she forgot all her

other sovereigns, even Ráma.

Once on a time a Bráhman, of the name of Víravara, came from

Málava to take service under that king who loved heroes. His wife's

name was Dharmavatí, his son was Sattvavara, and his daughter was

Víravatí. These three composed his family; and his attendants were

another three, at his side a dagger, a sword in one hand, and a

splendid shield in the other. Although he had so small a retinue, he

demanded from the king five hundred dínárs a day by way of salary. And

king Súdraka, perceiving that his appearance indicated great courage,

gave him the salary he desired. But he felt curious to know whether,

as his retinue was so small, he employed so many gold coins to feed his

vices, or lavished them on some worthy object. So he had him secretly

dogged by spies, in order to discover his mode of life. And it turned

out that every day Víravara had an interview with the king in the

morning, and stood at his palace-gate in the middle of the day,

sword in hand; and then he went home and put into the hand of his

wife a hundred dínárs of his salary for food, and with a hundred he

bought clothes, unguents and betel; and after bathing, he set apart

a hundred for the worship of Vishnu and Siva; and he gave two hundred

by way of charity to poor Bráhmans. This was the distribution which he

made of the five hundred every day. Then he fed the sacrificial fire

with clarified butter and performed other ceremonies, and took food,

and then he again went and kept guard at the gate of the palace alone

at night, sword in hand. When the king Súdraka heard from his spies,

that Víravara always followed this righteous custom, he rejoiced

in his heart; and he ordered those spies, who had dogged his path,

to desist; and he considered him worthy of especial honour as a

distinguished hero.

Then in course of time, after Víravara had easily tided through the

hot weather, when the rays of the sun were exceedingly powerful, the

monsoon came roaring, bearing a brandished sword of lightning, as if

out of envy against Víravara, and smiting [293] with rain-drops. And

though at that time a terrible bank of clouds poured down rain day

and night, Víravara remained motionless, as before, at the gate of

the palace. And king Súdraka, having beheld him in the day from

the top of his palace, again went up to it at night, to find out

whether he was there or not; and he cried out from it,--"Who waits

there at the palace-gate?" When Víravara heard that, he answered,

"I am here, your Majesty." Then king Súdraka thought to himself,

"Ah! Víravara is a man of intrepid courage and devotedly attached

to me. So I must certainly promote him to an important post." After

the king had said this to himself, he came down from the roof of his

palace, and entering his private apartments, went to bed.

And the next evening, when a cloud was violently raining with a heavy

downfall, and black darkness was spread abroad, obscuring the heaven,

[294] the king once more ascended the roof of the palace to satisfy

his curiosity, and being alone, he cried out in a clear voice,

"Who waits there at the palace-gate?" Again Víravara said, "I am

here." And while the king was lost in admiration at seeing his courage,

he suddenly heard a woman weeping in the distance, distracted with

despair, uttering only the piteous sound of wailing. When the king

heard that, pity arose in his mind, and he said to himself, "There

is no oppressed person in my kingdom, no poor or afflicted person;

so who is this woman, that is thus weeping alone at night?" Then he

gave this order to Víravara, who was alone below, "Listen, Víravara;

there is some woman weeping in the distance; go and find out who she

is and why she is weeping."

When Víravara heard that, he said, "I will do so," and set out thence

with his dagger in his belt, and his sword in his hand. He looked

upon the world as a Rákshasa black with fresh clouds, having the

lightning flashing from them by way of an eye, raining large drops of

rain instead of stones. And king Súdraka, seeing him starting alone

on such a night, and being penetrated with pity and curiosity, came

down from the top of the palace, and taking his sword, set out close

behind him, alone and unobserved. And Víravara went on persistently in

the direction of the weeping, and reached a tank outside the city, and

saw there that woman in the middle of the water uttering this lament,

"Hero! merciful man! Generous man! How can I live without you?" And

Víravara, who was followed by the king, said with astonishment,

"Who are you, and why do you thus weep?"--Then she answered him,

"Dear Víravara, know that I am this earth, and king Súdraka is now

my righteous lord, but on the third day from this his death will take

place, and whence shall I obtain such another lord? So I am grieved,

and bewail both him and myself." [295] When Víravara heard this,

he said, like one alarmed, "Is there then, goddess, any expedient

to prevent the death of this king, who is the protecting amulet of

the world?"

When the earth heard this, she answered, "There is one expedient

for averting it, and one which you alone can employ." Then Víravara

said,--"Then, goddess, tell it me at once, in order that I may quickly

put it in operation: otherwise what is the use of my life?" When the

earth heard this, she said,--"Who is as brave as you, and as devoted

to his master? So hear this method of bringing about his welfare. If

you offer up your child Sattvavara to this glorious goddess Chandí,

famous for her exceeding readiness to manifest herself to her votaries,

to whom the king has built a temple [296] in the immediate vicinity of

his palace, the king will not die, but live another hundred years. And

if you do it at once, his safety will be ensured, but if not, he will

assuredly have ceased to live on the third day from this time."

When the goddess Earth said this to Víravara, he said, "Goddess, I

will go, and do it this very instant." Then Earth said, "May success

attend you!" and disappeared; and the king, who was secretly following

Víravara, heard all this.

Then Víravara went quickly in the darkness to his own house, and king

Súdraka, out of curiosity, followed him unobserved. There he woke up

his wife Dharmavatí, and told her how the goddess Earth had directed

him to offer up his son for the sake of the king. When she heard

it, she said, "My lord, we must ensure the prosperity of the king;

so wake up this young boy of ours and tell it him yourself." Then

Víravara woke up his young son Sattvavara, who was asleep, and told

him what had occurred, and said to him, "So, my son, the king will

live if you are offered up to the goddess Chandí, but if not, he

will die on the third day." When Sattvavara heard it, though he was

a mere child, he shewed a heroic soul, and justified his name. [297]

He said "I shall have obtained all I desire, if the sacrifice of my

life saves that of the king, for so I shall have repaid him for his

food which I have eaten. So why should there be any delay? Take me

and offer me up immediately before the adorable goddess. Let me be

the means of bringing about the happiness of my lord."

When Sattvavara said this, Víravara answered, "Bravo! you are in truth

my own son." And the king, who had followed them, and heard all this

conversation from outside, said to himself, "Ah! they are all equal

in courage."

Then Víravara took his son Sattvavara on his shoulder, and his wife

Dharmavatí took their daughter Víravatí, and they both went that

very night to the temple of Chandí, and king Súdraka followed them

unobserved. Then Sattvavara was taken down by his father from his

shoulder, and placed in front of the idol, and the boy, who was full of

courage, bowed before the goddess, and said, "May the sacrifice of my

head ensure the life of king Súdraka! May he rule unopposed, goddess,

for another hundred years!" When the boy Sattvavara said this, Víravara

exclaimed, "Bravo!" and drew his sword and cut off his son's head,

and offered it to the goddess, saying, "May the sacrifice of my son

save the king's life!"--Immediately a voice was heard from the air,

"Bravo! Víravara! What man is as devoted to his sovereign as thou,

who, by the sacrifice of thy noble only son, hast bestowed on this

king Súdraka life and a kingdom?" Then that young girl Víravatí,

the daughter of Víravara, came up, and embraced the head of her slain

brother, and weeping, blinded with excessive grief, she broke her heart

and so died. And the king saw and heard all this from his concealment.

Then Víravara's wife Dharmavatí said to him, "We have ensured the

prosperity of the king, so now I have something to say to you. Since

my daughter, though a child and knowing nothing, has died out of grief

for her brother, and I have lost these two children of mine, what is

the use of life to me? Since I have been so foolish as not to offer

my own head long ago to the goddess for the welfare of the king, give

me leave to enter the fire with my children's bodies." When she urged

this request, Víravara said to her, "Do so, and may prosperity attend

you, for what pleasure could you find, noble woman, in continuing

a life, that would for you be full of nothing but grief for your

children. But do not be afflicted, because you did not sacrifice

yourself. Would not I have sacrificed myself, if the object could

have been attained by the sacrifice of any victim but our son? So

wait until I have made a pyre for you with these pieces of timber,

collected to build the fence round the sanctuary of the goddess."

When Víravara had said this, he made a funeral pyre with the timber,

and placed on it the bodies of his two children, and lighted it with

the flame of a lamp. Then his virtuous wife Dharmavatí fell at his

feet, and, after worshipping the goddess Chandí, she addressed to

her this prayer, "May my present husband be my husband also in a

future birth! And may the sacrifice of my life procure prosperity

for the king his master!" When the virtuous woman had said this,

she threw herself fearlessly into the burning pyre, from which the

flames streamed up like hair.

Then the hero Víravara said to himself, "I have done what the king's

interests required, as the celestial voice testified, and I have

paid my debt to my master for his food which I have eaten: so, as I

am now left alone, why should I thus cling to life? It does not look

well for a man like me to nurse his own life only, after sacrificing

all his dear family, which it is his duty to maintain. So why should

I not gratify Durgá by sacrificing myself?" Having thus reflected,

he first approached the goddess with this hymn of praise:

"Hail to thee, thou slayer of the Asura Mahisha, destroyer of the

Dánava Ruru, trident-bearing goddess! Hail to thee, best of mothers,

that causest rejoicing among the gods, and upholdest the three

worlds! Hail thou whose feet are worshipped by the whole earth,

the refuge of those that are intent on final beatitude! Hail thou

that wearest the rays of the sun, and dispellest the accumulated

darkness of calamity! Hail to thee, Kálí, skull-bearing goddess,

wearer of skeletons! Hail, Sivá! Honour to thee! Be propitious now to

king Súdraka on account of the sacrifice of my head!" After Víravara

had praised the goddess in these words, he cut off his head with a

sudden stroke of his sword.

King Súdraka, who was a witness of all this from his place of

concealment, was full of bewilderment, sorrow, and astonishment,

and said to himself, "This worthy man and his family have performed

for my sake a wonderful and difficult exploit never seen or heard

of anywhere else. Though the world is wide and various, where could

there be found a man so resolute as secretly to sacrifice his life

for his master, without proclaiming the fact abroad? And if I do not

requite this benefit, what is the use of my sovereignty, and of my

protracting my life, which would only be like that of an animal?"

When the heroic king had thus reflected, he drew his sword from the

sheath, and approaching the goddess, prayed thus to her, "Be propitious

to me now, goddess, on account of this sacrifice of my head, and confer

a boon on me, thy constant votary. Let this Bráhman Víravara, whose

acts are in accordance with his name, and who sacrificed his life for

my sake, be resuscitated with his family!" After uttering this prayer,

king Súdraka was preparing to cut off his head with his sword, but

at that moment a voice was heard from the air, "Do not act rashly;

I am pleased with this courage of thine; let the Bráhman Víravara be

restored to life, together with his wife and his children!"--Having

uttered so much, the voice ceased, and Víravara rose up alive and

unwounded, with his son, his daughter, and his wife. When the king,

who quickly concealed himself again, saw that marvel, he was never

tired of looking at them with an eye full of tears of joy.

And Víravara quickly awoke as if from sleep, and, beholding his

children and wife alive, and also himself, he was confused in mind. And

he asked his wife and children, addressing them severally by name,

"How have you returned to life after having been reduced to ashes? I

too cut off my head: what is the meaning of my being now alive? Is

this a delusion, or the manifest favour of the goddess?" When he

said this, his wife and children answered him, "Our being alive is

due to a merciful interposition of the goddess, of which we were not

conscious." Then Víravara came to the conclusion that it was so,

and after worshipping the goddess, he returned home with his wife

and children, having accomplished his object.