Then the hermit, rich in penance, fixt his eyes on me and

died.

Motionless I stood in sorrow: pondering in anxious thought How to minister most kindly to the woe my hand had wrought.

From the stream I filled the pitcher, and, fast speeding through the wood,

Reached the middle of the forest where the lowly cottage

stood.

Talking of their son's long absence, a poor aged sightless pair, Like two birds with clipt wings, helpless, none to guide them, sat they there.

Sadly, slowly I approached them, by my rash deed left

forlorn ;

Crusht with terror was my spirit, and my heart with anguish

torn.

At the sound of coming footsteps thus I heard the old man

say:

'Dear son, bring the water quickly: thou hast been too long

away,

Bathing in the stream, or playing, heedless how the minutes

past:

Come, thy mother longeth for thee. Come, and cheer her heart

at last.

Be not angry, mine own darling. Thou hast never vext us yet,
And if I have spoken harshly do forgive me and forget.
Thou art thy poor parents' succour, eyes art thou unto the
blind:

Speak, on thee our lives are resting. Why so silent and un

kind?'

Thus I heard, yet deeper grieving, and in fresh augmented

woe,

Spake to the bereaved father with words faltering and slow:

'I am not thy son, O hermit, but the ruler of the land, Plunged with thee in woe and mourning by my own accursed hand.

There on Sarju's bank I wandered with my arrows and my

bow

Bent to lay some prowling lion or a thirsty tiger low.

Then I heard a sound of drinking: all the place around was dark,

But I sent the deadly arrow, ah! too truly to the mark. Bounding swiftly from my ambush to the river's bank I hied, Where a hermit's son lay dying with my arrow in his side.

Forth I drew the deadly weapon. Then his last lament was

given

To his aged helpless parents, and his spirit went to heaven. Thus thy son, O saintly hermit, through my haste and folly fell;

Let deep sorrow win thy pardon for the deed I scarce can

tell.'

As he heard my mournful story, pouring down his aged cheek Came the torrent of his sorrow, and his voice came low and weak:

'King, hadst thou concealed this horror, this blood-shedding left untold,

On thy head the sin had fallen with its fruit ten thousand

fold.

For a Warrior stained with murder, of a hermit above all, From his high estate, blood-guilty, were he Indra's self, must

fall.

Lead us, king, by thee bereaved: lead us to the fatal place:
Let us fold our darling's body in a last and long embrace.'
By the hand I led the mourners to the river where he lay :
Fondly claspt the sightless parents in their arms the death-
cold clay.

Bowed down by their load of sorrow sank they by the dead

boy's side,

And the sage in lamentation lifted up his voice and cried:

'Hast thou not a greeting for me? Am not I thy father, dear? Answer but one word, my darling. Wherefore art thou lying here?

Art thou angry with thy father? Speak to me, beloved one! Surely thou wast ever duteous; look then on thy mother, son. Come dear child, embrace thy father, put thy little hand in mine:

Let me hear thee sweetly prattle some fond playful word of

thine.

Who will read me now the Scripture, filling my old heart

with joy?

Who, when evening rites are ended, cheer me mourning for

my boy?

Who will tend the helpless parents, fetch us water from the

spring?

Who will guide our feeble footsteps? Who will fruits and

berries bring?

Can I feed thine aged mother till her weary life is o'er?

Can I soothe her ever longing for the son who comes no more?

Stay, dear child, nor fly so quickly to grim Yama's dark abode:

Stay, thy father and thy mother will go with thee on the

road.

In the wild wood all deserted, none to aid us in our need, Quickly will thine aged parents tread the path for all decreed. Guiltless boy by sinner murdered, join thine own immortal band

In the heaven of slaughtered heroes slain on earth by other's

hand.

Hasten to thy blissful mansion; welcome shall thou be to

those

Who fell nobly here in battle with their bold front to their

foes.'

Then the funeral rites were finisht by the parents' loving

care,

And again the sage addrest me as I stood a suppliant there :

'Thou hast slain my well-beloved, killed mine only child, O king:

Kill me too, the childless father: death no longer has a sting.

But thou shalt not go unpunisht. Wretched youth, thy breast shall know

Somewhat of the pangs I suffer, a bereaved father's woe.