MÁTHAVYA.--Do you not remember? you told Chaturiká you should pass the heat of the day in the jasmine bower; and commanded her to bring the likeness of your queen Śakoontalá, sketched with your own hand. KING.--True. The sight of her picture will refresh my soul. Lead the way to the arbor. MÁTHAVYA.--This way, Sire. [_Both move on, followed by Sánumatí._ MÁTHAVYA.--Here we are at the jasmine bower. Look, it has a marble seat, and seems to bid us welcome with its offerings of delicious flowers. You have only to enter and sit down. [_Both enter and seat themselves._ SÁNUMATÍ [_aside_].--I will lean against these young jasmines. I can easily, from behind them, glance at my friend's picture, and will then hasten to inform her of her husband's ardent affection. [_Stands leaning against the creepers_. KING.--Oh! my dear friend, how vividly all the circumstances of my union with Śakoontalá present themselves to my recollection at this moment! But tell me now how it was that, between the time of my leaving her in the hermitage and my subsequent rejection of her, you never breathed her name to me! True, you were not by my side when I disowned her; but I had confided to you the story of my love and you were acquainted with every particular. Did it pass out of your mind as it did out of mine? MÁTHAVYA.--No, no; trust me for that. But, if you remember, when you had finished telling me about it, you added that I was not to take the story in earnest, for that you were not really in love with a country girl, but were only jesting; and I was dull and thick-headed enough to believe you. But so fate decreed, and there is no help for it. SÁNUMATÍ [_aside_].--Exactly. KING [_after deep thought_].--My dear friend, suggest some relief for my misery. MÁTHAVYA.--Come, come, cheer up; why do you give way? Such weakness is unworthy of you. Great men never surrender themselves to uncontrolled grief. Do not mountains remain unshaken even in a gale of wind? KING.--How can I be otherwise than inconsolable, when I call to mind the agonized demeanor of the dear one on the occasion of my disowning her? When cruelly I spurned her from my presence, She fain had left me; but the young recluse, Stern as the Sage, and with authority As from his saintly master, in a voice That brooked not contradiction, bade her stay. Then through her pleading eyes, bedimmed with tears, She cast on me one long reproachful look, Which like a poisoned shaft torments me still. SÁNUMATÍ [_aside_].--Alas! such is the force of self-reproach following a rash action. But his anguish only rejoices me. MÁTHAVYA.--An idea has just struck me. I should not wonder if some celestial being had carried her off to heaven.