cloth scarce clad—­
    For but one garb they shared; and thus they strayed
    Hither and thither, faint for meat and drink,
    Until a little hut they spied; and there,
    Nishadha’s monarch, entering, sat him down
    On the bare ground, the Princess by his side—­
    Vidarbha’s glory, wearing that scant cloth,
    Without a mat, soiled by the dust and mire. 
    At Damayanti’s side he sank asleep,
    Outworn; and beauteous Damayanti slept,
    Spent with strange trials—–­ she so gently reared,
    So soft and holy.  But while slumbering thus,
    No peaceful rest knew Nala.  Trouble-tossed
    He woke, forever thinking of his realm
    Lost, lieges estranged, and all the griefs
    Of that wild wood.  These on his heart came back,
    And, “What if I shall do it?  What, again,
    If I shall do it not?” So murmured he. 
    “Would death be better, or to leave my Love? 
    For my sake she endures this woe, my fate
    Too fondly sharing; freed from me, her steps
    Would turn unto her people.  At my side,
    Sure suffering is her portion; but apart,
    It might be she would somewhere comfort find.” 
      Thus with himself debating o’er and o’er,
    The Prince resolves abandonment were best. 
    “For how,” saith he, “should any in the wood
    Harm her, so radiant in her grace, so good,
    So noble, virtuous, faithful, famous, pure?”
    Thus mused his miserable mind, seduced
    By Kali’s cursed mischiefs to betray
    His sleeping wife.  Then, seeing his loin-cloth gone,
    And Damayanti clad, he drew anigh,
    Thinking to take of hers, and muttering,
    “May I not rend one fold, and she not know?”
    So meditating, round the cabin crept
    Prince Nala, feeling up and down its walls;
    And, presently, within the purlieus found
    A naked knife, keen-tempered; therewithal
    Shred he away a piece, and bound it on;
    Then made with desperate steps to seek the waste,
    Leaving the Princess sleeping; but, anon,
    Turns back again in changeful mood and glides
    Into the hut, and, gazing wistfully
    On slumbering Damayanti, moans with tears:—­
    “Ah, Sweetheart! whom nor wind nor sun before
    Hath ever rudely touched; thou to be couched
    In this poor hut, its floor thy bed, and I,
    Thy lord, deserting thee, stealing from thee
    Thy last robe!  O my Love with the bright smile,
    My slender-waisted Queen!  Will she not wake
    To madness?  Yea, and when she wanders lone
    In the dark wood, haunted with beasts and snakes,
    How will it fare with Bhima’s tender child,
    The bright and peerless?  O my life, my wife! 
    May the great sun, may the Eight Powers of air,
    The Rudras, Maruts, and the Aswins twain,
    Guard thee, thou true and dear one, on thy way!”
      So to his sleeping