And the elephant said: Pippala, she yielded at the last. And she said,
in a low voice: May my husband forgive me, if my better judgment is in
error, overlooking my own danger for his sake. But it will be
necessary to carry me, for, as I think, my body will not move of its
own accord. And then, all at once, she reeled, and would have fallen,
swooning at my feet, but that I sprang forward, and caught her as she
fell. And very carefully I lifted her in my arms, bereft as she was of
sense, and in my intoxication, unable to refrain, I kissed her as she
lay unconscious in my arms, and lo! she was as cold as ice. And I
called to my assistants, and got her with their help over that wall,
that resembled the last obstacle in the road of my delight, and placing
her in the litter, I carried her away very quickly to my palace, riding
beside her with a soul that danced as it were with joy and agitation,
while all the while she lay as if her own soul abandoning its body had
stayed behind her in the garden, refusing to be a traitor to its trust.
And as soon as we arrived, once more I took her in my arms, and carried
her within, and placed her, just as she was, upon a couch. And I said
to my _wita_, who was waiting: Bring now very quickly fans, and snow
and sandal, and camphor and aromatics, and let us bring her to herself.
And so, as I was fanning her, and sprinkling her with icy scents, all
at once, she stirred. And she put out her hand, as if groping to feel
who was beside her, and she murmured, Water, water! so low as hardly to
be heard.
And at that very moment, I looked, and saw the _wita_, gazing at me
with his eye. And he whispered: Maharáj, shall I give it? And I said:
Give it me, and I will give it her myself. And I took the water from
his hands, and emptied into it the phial; and I put the water to her
lips, and very greedily she drank. Ah! woe is me, I gave it, and she
drank. Ha! very wonderful is the terrible mystery of the consequence
of works, bound in whose adamantine chain we move, and blunder, not
seeing where we go, not knowing what we do, bringing about with open
eyes the very opposite of the end at which we aim. Ah! I, who would
have abandoned not one, but an infinity of bodies, only to save her
from a scratch, only to keep a single hair from falling from her head,
I, with these hands, I gave her that water, and she drank, while all
the while the _wita_ stood watching, like destiny in human form,
incarnate in a body that was destitute of any heart.
And Trishodadhi, as he listened, murmured to himself: Ha! better it
were to have no heart at all, than such a heart as thine. And all
oblivious of his muttering, he listened to the tale.