Half-risen, helpless, shrieking in the dark, "Haha! the elephants!" Of those unslain, Some in the thickets sought a shelter; some, Yet dazed with sleep, stood panic-stricken, mute; Till here with tusks, and there with trunks, the beasts Gored them, and battered them, and trod them flat Under their monstrous feet. Then might be seen Camels with camel-drivers, perishing, And men flying in fear, who struck at men-- Terror and death and clamor everywhere: While some, despairing, cast themselves to earth; And some, in fleeing, fell and died; and some Climbed to the tree-tops. Thus on every side Scattered and ruined was that caravan-- Cattle and merchants--by the herd assailed. So hideous was the tumult,-all three worlds Seemed filled with fright; and one was heard to cry:-- "The fire is in the tents! fly for your lives! Stay not!" And others cried: "Look where we leave Our treasures trodden down; gather them! Halt! Why run ye, losing ours and yours? Nay, stay! Stand ye, and we will stand!" And then to these One voice cried, "Stand!" another, "Fly! we die!" Answered by those again who shouted, "Stand! Think what we lose, O cowards!" While this rout Raged, amid dying groans and sounds of fear, The Princess, waking startled, terror-struck, Saw such a sight as might the boldest daunt-- Such scene as those great lovely lotus-eyes Ne'er gazed upon before. Sick with new dread-- Her breath suspended 'twixt her lips--she rose And heard, of those surviving, some one moan Amidst his fellows: "From whose evil act Is this the fruit? Hath worship not been paid To mighty Manibhadra? Gave we not The reverence due to Vaishravan, that King Of all the Yakshas? Was not offering made At outset to the spirits which impede? Is this the evil portent of the birds? Were the stars adverse? or what else hath fall'n?" And others said, wailing for friends and goods:-- "Who was that woman, with mad eyes, that came Into our camp, ill-favored, hardly cast In mortal mould? By her, be sure, was wrought This direful sorcery. Demon or witch, Yakshî or Rakshasî, or gliding ghost, Or something frightful, was she. Hers this deed Of midnight murders; doubt there can be none. Ah, if we could espy that hateful one, The ruin of our march, the woe-maker, With stones, clods, canes, or clubs, nay, with clenched fists, We'd strike her dead, the murderess of our band!" Trembling the Princess heard those angry words; And--saddened, maddened, shamed--breathless she fled Into the thicket, doubtful if such sin Might not be hers, and with fresh dread distressed. "Aho!" she weeps, "pitiless grows the wrath Of Fate against me. Not one gleam of good Arriveth. Of what fault is this the fruit? I cannot call to mind a wrong I wrought