To any--even a little thing--in act Or thought or word; whence then hath come this curse? Belike from ill deeds done in by-gone lives It hath befall'n, and what I suffer now Is payment of old evils undischarged. Grievous the doom--my palace lost, my lord, My children, kindred; I am torn away From home and love and all, to roam accurst In this plague-haunted waste!" When broke the day, Those which escaped alive, with grievous cries Departed, mourning for their fellows slain. Each one a kinsman or a friend laments-- Father or brother, son, or comrade dear. And Damayanti, hearing, weeps anew, Saying: "What dreadful sin was that I wrought Long, long ago, which, when I chance to meet These wayfarers in the unpeopled wood, Dooms them to perish by the elephants, In my dark destiny enwrapped? No doubt More and more sorrow I shall bear, or bring, For none dies ere his time; this is the lore Of ancient sages; this is why--being glad If I could die--I was not trampled down Under the elephants. There haps to man Nothing unless by destiny. Why else, Seeing that never have I wrought one wrong, From childhood's hours, in thought or word or deed, Hath this woe chanced? May be--meseems it may!-- The mighty gods, at my Swayamvara Slighted by me for Nala's dearest sake, Are wroth, and by their dread displeasure thus To loss and loneliness I am consigned!" So--woe-begone and wild--this noble wife, Deserted Damayanti, poured her griefs: And afterwards, with certain Bráhmanas Saved from the rout--good men who knew the Veds-- Sadly her road she finished, like the moon That goeth clouded in the month of rain. Thus travelling long, the Princess drew at last Nigh to a city, at the evening hour. The dwelling-place it was of Chedi's Chief, The just Subâhu. Through its lofty gates Painfully passed she, clad in half a cloth; And as she entered--sorrow-stricken, wan, Foot-weary, stained with mire, with unsmoothed hair, Unbathed, and eyes of madness--those who saw, Wondered and stared, and watched her as she toiled Down the long city street. The children break From play, and--boys with girls--followed her steps, So that she came--a crowd encompassing-- Unto the King's door. On the palace roof The mother of the Maharaja paced, And marked the throng, and that sad wayfarer. Then to her nurse spake the queen-mother this:-- "Go thou, and bring yon woman unto me! The people trouble her; mournful she walks, Seeming unfriended, yet bears she a mien Made for a king's abode, and, all so wild, Still are her wistful eyes like the great eyes Of Lakshmi's self." So downwards went the nurse, Bidding the rude folk back; and to the roof Of the great palace led that wandering one--