Sanskrit literature -- Translations into English; Tales -- India
Away went the prince after he had received these instructions; and very
soon he found himself opposite the temple, with the images of three of
the gods worshipped in India to prove that it had been a sanctuary
before the magician took up his abode in it. Directly Sringa-Bhuja
shouted out his message to Dhuma-Sikha, the wicked dweller in the
temple came rushing forth from the gateway, mounted on a huge horse,
which seemed to be belching forth flames from its nostrils as it
bounded along. For one terrible moment Sringa-Bhuja feared that he was
lost; but Marut, putting forth all his strength, kept a little in
advance of the enemy, giving the prince time to scatter earth behind
him. Immediately a great mountain rose up, barring the road, and
Sringa-Bhuja felt that he was saved. He was mistaken: for, as he looked
back, he saw Dhuma-Sikha coming over the top of the mountain. The next
moment the magician was close upon him. So he emptied his bowl of
water: and, behold, a huge river with great waves hid pursuer and
pursued from each other. Even this did not stop the mighty Arab horse,
which swam rapidly across, the rider loudly shouting out orders to the
prince to stop. When the prince heard the hoofs striking on the dry
ground behind him again, he threw out the thorns, and a dense wood
sprouted up as if by magic, which for a few moments gave fresh hope of
safety to Sringa-Bhuja; for it seemed as if even the powerful magician
would be unable to get through it. He did succeed however; but his
clothes were nearly torn off his back, and his horse was bleeding from
many wounds made by the cruel thorns. Sringa-Bhuja too was getting
weary, and remembered that he had only one more chance of checking his
relentless enemy. He could almost feel the breath of the panting steed
as it drew near; and with a loud cry to his beloved Rupa-Sikha, he
threw the burning charcoal on the road. In an instant the grass by the
wayside, the trees overshadowing it, and the magic wood which had
sprung from the thorns, were alight, burning so fiercely that no living
thing could approach them safely. The wicked magician was beaten at
last, and was soon himself fleeing away, as fast as he could, with the
flames following after him as if they were eager to consume him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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