YOUNG BRAHMAN.--How wonderful is the power of King Dushyanta! No sooner
did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed with our
sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons.
No need to fix the arrow to the bow;
The mighty monarch sounds the quivering string,
And, by the thunder of his arms dismayed,
Our demon foes are scattered to the wind.
I must now, therefore, make haste and deliver to the sacrificing priests
these bundles of Kusa-grass, to be strewn round the altar. [_Walking and
looking about; then addressing someone off the stage_.] Why, Priyamvada,
for whose use are you carrying that ointment of Usira-root and those
lotus leaves with fibres attached to them? [_Listening for her answer_.]
What say you?--that Sakoontala is suffering from fever produced by
exposure to the sun, and that this ointment is to cool her burning
frame? Nurse her with care, then, Priyamvada, for she is cherished by
our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils. I, for my
part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed in the sacrifice, be
administered to her by the hands of Gautami.
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