3. But when anon outswelling by its side, A woman's robe he spied, Oh then Ladurlad started, As one, who in his grave Had heard an angel's call. Yea, Marriataly, then hast deign'd to save! Yea, Goddess! it is she, To thy dear image clinging senselessly, And thus in happy hour Upborne amid the wave By that preserving power. 4. Headlong in hope and in joy Ladurlad dash'd in the water. {24} The water knew Kehama's spell, The water shrunk before him. Blind to the miracle, He rushes to his daughter, And treads the river-depths in transport wild, And clasps and saves his child. 5. Upon the farther side a level shore Of sand was spread: thither Ladurlad bore His daughter, holding still with senseless hand The saving Goddess; there upon the sand He laid the livid maid, Rais'd up against his knees her drooping head; Bent to her lips, . . . her lips as pale as death, . . . If he might feel her breath, His own the while in hope and dread suspended; Chaf'd her cold breast, and ever and anon Let his hand rest upon her heart extended. 6. Soon did his touch perceive, or fancy there, The first faint motion of returning life. He chafes her feet, and lays them bare In the sun; and now again upon her breast {25} Lays his hot hand; and now her lips he prest, For now the stronger throb of life he knew: And her lips tremble too! The breath comes palpably, Her quivering lids unclose Feebly and feebly fell, Relapsing as it seem'd to dead repose. 7. So in her father's arms thus languidly, While over her with earnest gaze he hung, Silent and motionless she lay, And painfully and slowly writh'd at fits, At fits to short convulsive starts was stung. Till when the struggle and strong agony Had left her, quietly she lay repos'd: Her eyes now resting on Ladurlad's face, Relapsing now, and now again unclos'd. The look she fix'd upon his face, implies Nor thought nor feeling; senselessly she lies, Compos'd like one who sleeps with open eyes. 8. Long he leant over her, {26} In silence and in fear. Kailyal! . . . at length he cried in such a tone, As a poor mother ventures who draws near, With silent footstep, to her child's sick bed. My Father! cried the maid, and rais'd her head, Awakening then to life and thought, . . . thou here? For when his voice she heard, The dreadful past recurr'd, Which dimly, like a dream of pain, Till now with troubled sense confus'd her brain.