know not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put to death, or something that is worse than any death, by those who have carried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. I only was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror from its shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadow of the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutely over, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, or wait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, but still alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, to die! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but an idle waste of time, and yet I dare not die, for fear, lest after all, she should return. And all at once, he stopped short: for as he spoke, there fell upon his ear a noise. And he listened, and exclaimed: I hear the tramp of horses, approaching in the wood. And he started up, like his own heart, that began to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in the whirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses be coming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with a soul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a rider suddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed by others like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and their leader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it by the rein. And when Babhru saw his face, he started, and exclaimed within himself: Ha! why! that is the very face that I saw lurking in the bush. And then, all at once, he shouted aloud: Ha! then, it was thou; it is thou, as I thought, who art the robber, after all. And Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou art hasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though so far thou art right, that we are old friends. Yet still thou art unjust, for I am not the robber. It was not I that carried off thy beauty from the wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to call even him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowed her, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he has returned her by my hands: and here she is.