YOUNG BRAHMAN.—­How wonderful is the power of King Dushyanta!  No sooner
did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed with our
sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons. 
    No need to fix the arrow to the bow;
    The mighty monarch sounds the quivering string,
    And, by the thunder of his arms dismayed,
    Our demon foes are scattered to the wind. 
I must now, therefore, make haste and deliver to the sacrificing priests
these bundles of Kusa-grass, to be strewn round the altar. [Walking and
looking about; then addressing someone off the stage.] Why, Priyamvada,
for whose use are you carrying that ointment of Usira-root and those
lotus leaves with fibres attached to them? [Listening for her answer.]
What say you?—­that Sakoontala is suffering from fever produced by
exposure to the sun, and that this ointment is to cool her burning
frame?  Nurse her with care, then, Priyamvada, for she is cherished by
our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils.  I, for my
part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed in the sacrifice, be
administered to her by the hands of Gautami.
          [Exit.

ACT THIRD

Scene.—­The Sacred Grove

Enter King Dushyanta, with the air of one in love.

KING [sighing thoughtfully].—­The holy sage possesses magic power
    In virtue of his penance; she, his ward,
    Under the shadow of his tutelage
    Rests in security.  I know it well;
    Yet sooner shall the rushing cataract
    In foaming eddies re-ascend the steep,
    Than my fond heart turn back from its pursuit.

God of Love!  God of the flowery shafts![38] we are all of us cruelly deceived by thee, and by the Moon, however deserving of confidence you may both appear.

    For not to us do these thine arrows seem
    Pointed with tender flowerets; not to us
    Doth the pale moon irradiate the earth
    With beams of silver fraught with cooling dews:—­
    But on our fevered frames the moon-beams fall
    Like darts of fire, and every flower-tipped shaft
    Of Kama, as it probes our throbbing hearts,
    Seems to be barbed with hardest adamant.

Adorable god of love! hast thou no pity for me? [In a tone of anguish.] How can thy arrows be so sharp when they are pointed with flowers?  Ah!  I know the reason: 

    E’en now in thine unbodied essence lurks
    The fire of Siva’s anger, like the flame
    That ever hidden in the secret depths
    Of ocean, smoulders there unseen.  How else
    Couldst thou, all immaterial as thou art,
    Inflame our hearts thus fiercely?—­thou, whose form
    Was scorched to ashes by a sudden flash
    From the offended god’s terrific eye. 
Yet, methinks,
    Welcome this anguish, welcome